


it is just the way of the world

by anetherealmelody



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Dave | Technoblade-centric, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Techno needs a hug, someone give it to him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27990528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anetherealmelody/pseuds/anetherealmelody
Summary: It is him and him alone. It always has been. It always will be. There is no one watching over him. There is no one looking out for him.But as he watches the ink patterns come and go on his skin—music discs, guitars, wings—he wonders if there is more to life than just fighting, than just surviving.He wonders if soulmates are real.or: A boy with a past too painful to recount meets a child too hollow for his age, a teenager too quiet for his voice, and a man too kind for his circumstances—and learns to love them all.(techno pov)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Dave | Technoblade, Dave | Technoblade & Phil Watson, Dave | Technoblade & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 886
Kudos: 3220





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lo and behold, the obligatory SOULMATE AU. I'm sorry. It was too tempting. I am not strong enough to resist.
> 
> All right, so. Allow me to explain. This is going to be a series. Each story will cover one character's full POV—start to finish. All stories in the series will take place in the same world, so the full plot will not be revealed until each character's story is read. I.E., this story is all Techno's POV, so his entire story will be covered, but other character's stories / backgrounds may be ambiguous until I get around to posting them. This is the first, obviously, so those things won’t make sense yet, but I promise they will! 
> 
> Hopefully that makes sense. Sorry for the long note, lol. Hope you like it! I am SO super excited to finally start posting this series! <3
> 
> tw // drug and alcohol use by his parents, child neglect

_day of birth_

His mother is proved right. The nurse is proved wrong. 

His mother has another child.

She doesn’t have the birth in the hospital. She’d long sworn off ever entering one again. She has it in her home, with a midwife and a straight face. 

When it’s over, she doesn’t look at the child. He’s small and pink and crying viciously, but she doesn’t hear him—she doesn’t care. She hands him to her husband, who sets him on the cold tile, and asks for two things—to get a drink, and to get laid. 

Her husband grins and complies.

The midwife worries, as she gazes at the small thing she’s nabbed from the floor.

The baby cries.

///

_five years old_

He checks his shoulder as he clumsily climbs the concrete stairs, hoping beyond reason that his parents do not notice him. He doesn’t think they will; he left his mother complaining about an aching back, and he left his father promising a foot massage and a “cold one”—whatever that meant—as soon as he’s finished “coming down.” That doesn’t make sense, either, since both of them are already downstairs, but he digresses—as long as they’re preoccupied, he doesn’t much care.

After all, he’s been waiting _ages_ for this day, for this moment—where he can finally dig through the piles of laundry and newspaper and cardboard and rotting trash for that silver glinting _thing_ he’d seen a month ago. It’d been lying on the floor, taunting him with its innocence—so close but so, so far, for if his parents caught him, he’s not sure they wouldn’t use it on him.

He’s a practical child. He thinks it’s probably a set of shears. 

He hopes it’s a dagger. 

He isn’t quite sure what a dagger does, but from the picture books he’s studied, only the characters with the evil, twisted grins and black eyes have them. Only the angry. Only the strong.

He is angry. He wants to be strong.

He sneaks into the storage room. Piles of long forgotten, long useless things tower everywhere. _Everywhere_ , everywhere—he can hardly move around the room. He scrunches his nose because the smell is putrid, and squeezes in between the clutter. 

He bumps into a particularly high stack of cardboard boxes and flinches. When only a newspaper flutters to the ground, he exhales in relief and bend to pick it up. 

He cannot read the headline because he’s only now learning his alphabet, but if he could, he would see that it dated last week and read: 

_King Damian Assassinated by Schlatt’s Band of Rogues!_

If he could read the subtitles, he would read: 

_Young Prince Kidnapped! Crown Prince Only Five Years Old! State of Emergency Declared Nationwide!_

But he can’t yet read, and he doesn’t yet care about politics or princes, so he only squints at the mess of ink for a moment before dropping it on the ground.

He steps on something sharp and winces, but he keeps walking until something shines in the corner of his eye. 

He hurtles toward it, leaving a trail of bloody footsteps behind him—what he stepped in must have been glass—and skids to a stop.

The glint hadn’t moved since he’d last seen it. It’s silver and polished and so completely different than everything else here, which is dusty and drab and bland.

He’s careful not to make too much noise. He squats down and takes thing after thing from on top of it, sets them aside, digs closer and closer to his goal.

He swipes a piece of paper away, and he gapes. 

It is not a set of shears. Nor is it a dagger. 

It’s a sword.

He doesn’t know what it’s made of, and he doesn’t know how it came into his parent’s possession. He doesn’t know why they left it in the storage room, and he doesn’t know why they don’t keep it with them, just in case. 

He doesn’t care. 

He hauls it up—it’s far heavier than he anticipated—and drags it behind him. Silence is the only guarantee that he’ll keep it, so it takes him twice as long to exit as it had to enter. 

He makes it to his room, winces as the door clicks shut, and slumps again the door in staggering relief. 

He slides the sword onto the floor and stares. 

The hilt is matte and dark gray. The blade is silver, and sparkles in the cold light.

That’s his favorite part—the blade. It is beautiful. It is ethereal. 

It is _his_.

///

His hands are clammy, but his steps are purposeful. He holds his head as high as he can, hoping that the confidence he doesn’t feel infuses into his blood before he can spin around and sprint away. 

His parents are kneeling at a long table with their backs to him. Patches of white powder spread before unevenly them, glaring against the dark wood like a scatter of stars at midnight, like new flecks of snow against the dismal asphalt. He is confused, because he hadn’t been able to find the salt this morning. They’d told him that they were all out. Now it’s all on the table. They must have been lying. 

He readjusts his grip on the paper in his hands and shakes the thoughts away. He moves until he’s close enough to see his father meticulously dividing the patches into lines with a razor.

His mother hisses in pain. “This stupid kid.”

He blanches.

His father shrugs, uncaring, and he realizes that they hadn’t been speaking of him, but of his mother’s bulging stomach. “We could’ve gotten rid of it,” his father says.

His mother tilts her head back and groans. “How are you not done?”

“I’m close,” his father snaps. “Do you have the straws?”

“We ran out yesterday,” his mother says. “I told you this morning, but you weren’t—”

“Fine,” his father says, and stands up. “I don’t care. I’ll get paper.”

“Hurry,” his mother says.

He swallows as his father turns around. His hands are drenched, now—there are sweat stains on the paper. They blur the numbers to incoherency. 

When he is seen, his father pauses. 

“What are you doing here?” his father demands. 

The confidence still hasn’t come, so he instead draws on the reserves of desperation buried somewhere deep inside his chest. He _must_ learn this. 

“I need help,” he says, and holds up his paper. “These are my numbers.”

His mother groans again. “Get him _out_.”

His father scowls at him. “You heard her.” 

“Please,” he says, and shakes the paper a little. “Mr. Sam said that I need to be better at my numbers.”

His father strides toward him and snatches the paper away. “Go to school.” 

“I don’t go to school on Saturday.”

“Then go outside until we come get you.”

He blinks as his father“Are you doing it?”

“Doing _what?”_

“Doing my numbers? Helping?”

“Yes,” his father says, and points toward the door. “Leave.”

He does.

Outside is cold. He gets a splinter in his finger as he lowers himself down onto the wooden porch.

He sits until the sun sets, thinking about warmth and food and chill and hunger and decidedly _not_ thinking about how Harry and Evan will call him a pig again if he still doesn’t know his numbers by Monday.

His parents do not come for him. 

It’s okay—he doesn’t care much. When he gets so cold that he thinks his fingers are going to freeze off, he picks himself up and sneaks back inside. He hopes he doesn’t get in trouble. 

As he’s tiptoeing toward the stairs, he sees his parents collapsed facedown on the table, fast asleep. He’s freezing cold and their house is freezing cold, so they’re probably cold, too. Despite his fear of punishment, he scrambles to grab them a blanket from the storage room. It’s dusty, but they probably won’t notice. 

He quietly steps back into the room. He spends a moment deciding who to give it to, then places it over his mother, since she has _two_ people to keep warm—herself and his unborn brother.

He starts to leave the room, but notices that there is something scattered all around the floor. He furrows his eyebrows and bends down to pick a piece of it up. 

It’s a strip of rolled paper. He unrolls it, curious, and brushes remnants of salt from the inside.

He cannot yet read, but he squints at the strip and recognizes the ink as a number.

_3_. 

There are strips of paper everywhere. He throws the one he holds onto the floor and storms from the room as loudly as he can. 

His parents do not even stir.

///

There is a drink in his mother’s hand. 

Neither of his parents have hit him before, but she looks mighty tempted now—towering over him, clutching her stomach, screaming at him to wake his father, to get out of her way. She downs the rest of the glass and throws it against the wall. 

He doesn’t flinch. He is long accustomed to her random, violent outbursts. 

He just stares.

Water drips down her legs and puddles at her feet. He is confused. He thought that a _baby_ was supposed to come out, not _water_. Did the baby dissolve? He’d learned about dissolving at school the other day. They’d mixed a bunch of sugar into water and the sugar turned into clouds and clouded up the water. The sugar dissolved in the water. Did the baby dissolve in the water? Where is the baby?

“Where is he?” his mother screams.

He blinks up at her. “He’s asleep.”

“Then wake him _up_.”

“I asked him to,” he says. “He didn’t listen.”

“Don’t _ask_ him, you stupid—” She cuts herself off with a groan and collapses against the wall. “Get him _now._ ”

He turns to find his father because her face is as pale as the powder on the floor. His father is slumped in a rickety recliner, head lolled lifelessly on his shoulder. 

He shakes his father. “Wake up,” he says. “Mom told me to wake you up.”

His father doesn’t respond. 

He shakes him harder. “I think Mom is having the baby,” he says. “Even though it maybe dissolved. But maybe not. But you should wake up just in case.”

Nothing. 

He scrambles back to his mother, not willing to further risk his father’s rage. “He isn’t waking up,” he says. 

“If he is baked _now_ , I swear I’ll—”

“He isn’t baking,” he says. “He’s asleep.”

His mother glares at him. “I’ll wake him myself,” she mutters, and limps away. 

He bites his lip. “I can help you,” he says.

“No, you can’t. Stop following me.”

“But—”

“I said _stop_ ,” she snaps.

He does. Stop talking, that is. 

He doesn’t stop after her. She moves slowly, so he moves slower—quietly, so as not to be chastised. 

When she gets to his father’s side, she slaps him hard across the face. 

He jerks awake. She takes a sharp step back. 

He sputters, scowls, and shields his eyes from the light. “What the hell is your problem?” he demands, glaring at her with bloodshot eyes. 

“I’m giving birth,” she says dryly.

His father hacks a cough. “Now?”

“Yes, _now._ What kind of question is—” She groans again. 

“Where’s the midwife?” he shouts. 

She glares at him. “ _You_ let her go. _You_ said we couldn’t afford her. Now get the hell off the couch and take me—”

“Where?” his father snaps, and stands up. “We can’t go to the hospital. They’ll run tests.”

“I _know_ that. I don’t care where. I don’t even want it. Just get me out of this house _now_.”

His father stumbles to her side and puts his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll try to make it to the midwife’s anyway,” he says. 

They do not glance at him as they pass.

He scrambles behind them, careful not to step in the trail of water. “Can I come?” he asks. 

“No,” his father says shortly.

“I’ll stay far away, I promise. I just want to see the baby and maybe hold him or something, and—”

“No,” his father repeats. 

“But—”

His father spins toward him. “ _No_ ,” he says, eyes flashing. “Don’t ask again. We’ll be back. Stay here. Understand?”

They’re gone before he can nod. 

He sits in careful silence, staring at the floor, thinking about everything and nothing. He’s _excited,_ despite himself, despite his father’s lecture. He’s going to have a _brother_. When his parents are sleeping or gone or busy, he’ll have someone else to be with. He’ll have company. He’ll have a friend. 

He’ll have a _brother_. 

He can’t wait. 

He has to, though, so he does, albeit reluctantly. He tires of sitting, so he grabs a book that his eyes can’t read. He tires of his stomach growling, so he grabs half of a greening potato from the kitchen.He tires of waiting, so he falls asleep curled up on the ground in front of the front door. 

Hours or days later, he’s woken by a wail and the foot of the door slamming into his spine. 

He shoots to his feet with the kind of striking coherency that only being startled awake supplies. He scrambles backward—eyes wide, anxious, _ready_. A smile tugs at his mouth.

But his parents come through the door and he falters.

His father is murderous. His mother is sobbing.

He takes a step back. 

And he realizes—the wail wasn’t a baby’s. It was his mother’s. 

He twists his fingers at his stomach. 

His father is carrying his mother in his arms. Her clothes are covered in dirty water and dark sweat and ruby blood. 

He wants to speak, but he cannot find his voice. It doesn’t matter, anyway—his father shoves a paper into his chest and says, “Go get this from the pharmacist.”

He takes the paper timidly and looks up with furrowed eyebrows. “Where’s—”

“Go. _Now_.”

He swallows his fear, steadies his stance, and pipes up again, “Where’s the baby?”

His father whirls toward him. “I told you to—”

“He’s _gone_ ,” his mother bawls. “We left him with her. We _left_ him with her. What is wrong with—”

“Nothing,” his father snaps. “We did what we had to. You’re out of your mind.”

“I don’t even know her name,” his mother continues. “I don’t—don’t even know who she is and now she _has_ him and she gets to _keep_ him and—”

“That’s what we wanted from the start,” his father growls. 

“—she was so _young_. He was so small, and she was so young, and we _left_ him with her—”

“We already agreed not to keep it!” his father yells. “So shut the hell up!”

His mother hiccups another sob, but complies. 

He stares at them blankly. He doesn’t understand. “Where—”

“Go,” his father says, and carries his mother up the stairs and out of sight.

His eyes glaze over. His mouth dries. He is confused. Where is the baby?

Maybe it’s…still coming? 

He knows it’s not. He isn’t stupid or deluded or entirely naive—though he should still be. 

He knows with the kind of knowledge that one just _has_ —the visceral, inherent kind one is born with when knowing something to be right or true or fact—that he will not meet his brother today. That he may not meet him ever. 

He stands still so long he’s sure there are footmarks in the cement, but before his father can come lecture him, he slips out the door and stumbles down the porch into the sunset.

He’s more familiar with this route than he is with his school’s route, and he’s there within a quarter hour. He walks up to the front, stands on his tiptoes, and peeks his chin over the counter. “I need this,” he says, and hands the paper over. 

The man behind the counter considers him. Recognition flashes in his eyes—and then something like pity. He takes the paper gently, flicks over it, and sighs. “I filled this last week, kid.”

“It’s for Mom,” he says, because he doesn’t know what the man meant.

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“But Dad told me to come get it.”

The man stares. 

Then, after only a moment’s thought, he neatly folds the paper and tucks it into his shirt pocket. He turns, leaves, and returns with an orange bottle of rattling pills.

The man extends the bottle to him. “How old are you?”

“Five,” he says. He takes the bottle. “Thanks.”

He leaves the store. He doesn’t hear the man’s second sigh. He doesn’t see him shake his head or mutter a prayer under his breath. 

It doesn’t matter, though. As soon as he’s out of sight, the man’s forgotten him, anyway.

He doesn’t know this, but if he did, he wouldn’t be surprised.

///

He is practical. He wants to see for himself—just in case. His parents may have missed something. They tend to make things up, especially when they sit at the table with salt or sit on the couches with the glass drinks. They don’t really have a good memory on those days. Maybe they just forgot.

Just like he had at the pharmacy, he peeks his chin over the counter. 

“Why hello there, young man,” a kind face woman greets, smiling softly. “My name is Puffy. What’s yours?”

“I’m here to find my brother,” he says.

Puffy raises an eyebrow. “Your brother?”

He nods. His chin smacks the counter. He scowls, drops back down to his heels, rubs his chin, and peeks back up. 

There is laughter in Puffy's eyes. “You all right?”

“Yes,” he says. “I need to see my brother.”

“Okay. Is your brother sick?”

“I don’t know,” he says. 

“That’s okay. What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” he says. 

Her smile slips away. She looks at him closer, and he doesn’t really like that—doesn’t like the way her eyes flick over his tangled hair and ratted clothes and dirt-stained face. He takes a step back. 

“You don’t know?” she asks. 

He shakes his head. “Yesterday was his first day.”

She raises another eyebrow. “On Earth?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “He was born.”

“All right,” Puffy says, laughing a little. She looks down at her register, though, and sobers. She glances back up at him. “We haven’t had any new births since Tuesday,” she says carefully. 

“That’s okay,” he says, and turns around. He is not surprised. “Goodbye.”

“Honey, wait. What’s your name? Where are your parents?”

He turns down the hall and slips out the front door. 

Unlike the pharmacist, Puffy chases after him. 

It doesn’t matter. He’s already gone. 

///

He hears the bombs before he sees the fire. He slips out of bed, bleary-eyed and half-conscious, walks to the window, and sees it on the horizon—far enough to prevent real danger, but close enough to present real panic. 

His mother drags him down to the basement. She hands him a blanket, and he huddles in a corner. She retreats to converse in low, strained hisses with his father. 

He falls asleep. 

The next morning, he is pulling the blanket off of his form when he pauses. 

For the first time in his life, there is ink on his skin. He does not know what it means, nor what the pictures represent—a couple of circles on his arm, a streak of ovals on his shin and both knees. The circles have dark spots in the middle like pupils in an eye—like music discs in a jukebox—and the ovals have handles that make them almost look like…guitars. 

He frowns, confused, and chalks it up to…well, he actually doesn’t chalk it up to anything. He quickly loses fascination with the markings in favor of the view outside his window. 

The world is on fire.

He stands on his tiptoes and watches the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up soon:D Thank you for reading! If you feel so inclined, let me know what you thought! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for everyone's support on last chapter! You guys are so awesome! <3
> 
> tw // child neglect, bullying, drug mention and use (by parents), drug overdose (by parents), minor oc character deaths

_six years old_

His teacher looks at him with raised eyebrows. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, picturing the letters in his mind, lining them up and fitting them together. 

“Would you like me to repeat it?” she asks. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Al… _alphabet_.”

“Very good. Would you like a c-h-a-l-l-e-n-g-e?”

“Challenge,” he says easily. “Yes.”

“R-h-i-n-o-c-e-r-o-s.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Ri… _ry…_ us. Rhinoceros.”

His teacher grins at him, and places a plastic metal around his neck. “Congratulations!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together, turning to the rest of the class. “You’ve won the Backwards Spelling Bee!”

The rest of the class passes in a blur of happy high-fives and envious glares. When the bell rings at the end of the day, he stuffs the sixth year history book he’d taken from the library that morning into his backpack, and stands to leave. 

At the door, his teacher pulls him aside. “Your spelling has improved a lot,” she says. “Have you been practicing?”

He thinks of the hours he’d spent beside the window, angling to land the glare of the streetlight on his pages. He thinks of the pages and pages he’d copied from the textbooks—paragraphs and sentences and words and letters—not only because he had nothing else to do, but because he liked it.

“I read sometimes,” he says, and shrugs.

“Well, I can certainly tell,” she says. “Your reading has improved, too.”

“Thank you,” he says.

She smiles. He turns and leaves. 

He doesn’t make it fourteen steps before two figures are stepping out of the shadow. 

They were inevitable. He is not surprised. 

“Give me that medal,” Harry says. 

“No,” he says. 

They step closer. He stands taller. 

“Hand it over,” Evan says. 

“No,” he says again. 

“Fine, pig,” Harry sneers. “We’ll just take it the hard way.”

They do.

///

He stares at the pages, legs folded underneath him, and reads about the past. He loves it more than anything in the world. It’s an escape. It’s hard to escape in fiction, because it isn’t real. But escaping into truth? Into the past? All of what he reads actually happened. And if there’s one fact about history, it’s that it repeats itself.

Maybe it will. Maybe something he reads about will happen to him. 

He reads about countries that no longer exist. He reads about conquerers and their strategies. He reads about pillars and soldiers and castles and swords. 

One morning he asks his parents for money to buy a book from the shop near school, but they don’t have any to spare. It’s okay—he understands. Sometimes he’d rather read than eat, but he knows that spending money on food is more important. 

That evening, he sneaks into the library long after it has closed and fills his backpack with books. He is used to checking them out. He is not used to _keeping_ them. 

It’s amazing. 

He grins the whole way home. He runs when he hears footsteps and sprints when he hears voices, but he’s laughing the entire time, so it’s okay. 

He tucks himself in his room and reads for the rest of the month. 

Bruises litter his skin every time he comes home from school, but his parents don’t notice and his new teacher doesn’t care, so he covers them with clothing and changes nothing. He wakes up early to read. He goes to school. He comes home and reads. He eats when they have food. He goes to sleep.

He loves it. Most of it, at least.

///

_seven years old_

“You aren’t listening,” the boy—Ponk, he thinks his name is—insists. “I’m telling the truth! I’m not making it up!”

“Sounds ridiculous to me,” he says. 

“No, dude. I’m serious. Look—I have ‘em, too.”

Ponk holds out his hand for him to see. Engrained into his palm are a swirl of little purple daisies. 

He scrunches his forehead. “All of mine are black,” he says. “Why are yours colored?”

Ponk looks at him strangely. “Has no one ever told you about soulmates _?”_

“They have,” he lies. “I forgot.”

“Oh,” Ponk says, nodding. “Well, basically, Mum told me that these things here—” he points to the daisies, “—are called _soul marks_. Soul marks show up wherever your soulmates are hurt. This is my sister’s soul mark, which makes sense, because yesterday she scraped her hand when she was cooking. When it heals, the soul marks disappear, but they come back whenever your soul mate gets hurt again.”

He thinks of the many markings he’s seen on his skin. The guitars, the sets of wings, the eyes—or music discs; he hasn’t quite deciphered which it is yet.

If any of this is even _real,_ which he isn’t certain it is— _please, please, please be real_ —then all of those markings…all of those ink patterns and drawings and images are where his soulmates have been _hurt_.

That’s…weird. And a little scary.

“So why are mine black?” he asks. 

“They stay black and white until you actually meet the person. I’ve known Janet—that’s my sister, obviously—since I was born, so ours have always been colored for each other.” He tugs down the collar of his shirt to reveal a streak of black crows. “This one I haven’t met yet.”

“You have two?”

“Yes,” Ponk says, nodding proudly. “How many do you have? Have you met any of yours? Do you have any soul marks right now? Can I see them?”

He blinks away the onslaught of questions. A sudden, overwhelming desire to _not_ answer a single one overtakes him. If they are real, they are _his_. Not anyone else’s. No one has any claim over them except _him_. 

He shrugs. “None of mine are hurt right now,” he says, even though there are eyes—music discs?— on the bottom of his foot and guitars on the inside of his calf and wings on the pad of his finger. 

When he gets home from school, he spends all afternoon staring at the spots of ink on his skin.

_Soulmates_.

///

_eight years old_

He realizes it on a Wednesday.

He is small and weak. Each day, he gets smaller and weaker. 

It’s not his fault, but it _is_ , isn’t it? None of the soldiers in the past ran out of breath after walking a block. None of the scientists in the past fell asleep on the first page of reading. They were always improving, always bettering their situation.

He is stagnant.

He ducks under his bed and sees something he hadn’t thought about in ages—his mind too preoccupied with books and learning and study and soldiers and soulmates. 

He grins. 

He slides the sword out from under his bed. He holds it up. It glints in the dank sunlight that drips through his window. 

He drags it outside. It clangs as he walks, but he doesn’t harbor a single fear of getting caught. He’d long known that the salt sitting on his table every day isn’t salt. One of his books had spoken of pills and powders and rolled papers—how they steal consciousness, how they conquer free-thought, how they dominate will. His parents won’t notice him, and that’s okay. No one has noticed him before. 

The dirt is wet underfoot. He grips the sword with two hands and lifts it up. In one, swift motion, he swipes it down.

He does it again. And again and again and again.

His movements are clumsy and his muscles are strained, but sweat pools on his forehead and joy pools on his features. 

It is intrinsic—the way he carries himself. It does not come from reading or studying or paying attention in class. It comes from some deep, undiscovered part of his soul—from a part that woke up as soon as he touched the sword, as soon as he slashed it in the air— _this_ is why he’s here. _This_ is what he’s made for. 

He has no reference. No instructor. No teacher. No guide.

That’s good. That’s the most important part. That means that his skill level is not limited by an individual’s experience.

That means that his potential is his _own_.

///

_nine years old_

“They couldn’t make it,” he says, rubbing his thumb back and forth over his forearm where he knows a line of music discs lay.

His teacher looks at him strangely. “It’s a _parent-_ teacher conference, son. They’re supposed to be here. You aren’t.”

He does not break his teacher’s gaze, despite his steadily building flush. “I know. They couldn’t come.”

“And why not?”

“They’re out of town,” he lies.

“Out of town?”

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t you with them?”

He stands and shrugs. “Didn’t want to be,” he says. He turns and walks away.

Before he can make it out the door, his teacher asks, “Son, is everything…is everything okay?”

He stares at the door handle. 

There is blood dripping down his stomach from where yesterday afternoon’s wound had reopened. His stomach growls with lack of food. His eyes droop with lack of sleep. These are the same clothes he wore yesterday and the day before. Every step is a lofty task—he is tired. He is sore. He is sick. He is drained.

_No_ , he thinks. _No, it’s not_.

“Yeah,” he says. 

He pushes through the door.

///

_ten years old_

He has an idea.

The bathroom mirror is cracked, but he leans over the counter and pushes his sleeve against his bleeding nose. 

His face is blue and purple. His chest is yellow. The floor is blooming red with his bloody footsteps. It’s all right, though—no one is here to chastise him. His parents haven’t been home for days. 

Nor are they here to chastise him for the anger blossoming in his chest. 

It’s vicious and sudden. He’s never felt it before— _fury_. Pure and unadulterated. Whole and consuming. 

He is _furious_. 

With his life. With his circumstances. With his teachers. With his classmates. With his parents.

But most of all, with himself.

He is _letting this happen_ to him. He hasn’t even tried to stop it. All of it—every single part—is _his_ fault. He is a coward.

He is stronger than he’s ever been—though he’s still very, very weak—and, still, he’s letting everyone walk all over him. Still, nothing has changed.

What is _wrong_ with him?

Tears threaten his eyes and that only makes things _worse._ He holds his sleeve to his nose and sprints up the stairs before they fall. He pulls the sword from under his bed, hauls it downstairs and onto the front lawn. 

It’s the first time he’s only been able to use one hand, but it hardly makes a difference. If anything, it makes him faster—spinning in rhythm, fighting in time to the pounding of his heart, to the fury beating in his blood.

He whirls, parries, slashes, retreats, and realizes something. 

He is _good_. 

He is a good fighter.

He can be even better. 

When he is finished, he runs inside and picks a date on his calendar—exactly one year away.

He has an idea. 

///

_eleven years old_

Everything is ready. He lines it all up to be perfect. 

He rehearses it in his head as he dresses for class. He will not bring his sword; it will not fit in his backpack. He will use the pocket knife that he’d found in the storage room. After class, when they inevitably corner him—with twisted grins and hungry eyes and ready fists—he will pull it out of his backpack.

He will not hurt them, because he does not want his hand to slip. He is not stupid. Murder in this country is invariably met with execution—no matter the motive, no matter the circumstance. 

He will show them the knife, but keep it out of their reach. He will let them know that he has a way to defend himself. If they call him something, he’ll raise it and take a step forward. They will back off. They are cowards, too, see. That’s what this plan hinges on. 

It will work. He has thought everything through. 

He shoulders his backpack. The weight of the knife brings a smile to his lips. He walks down the stairs.

Before he’s reached the door, he glances to his right. His father is slumped on the table, which isn’t particularly unusual. His mother is lying on the floor. 

He stops. Pauses. Squints. 

Blanches. 

His heart drops. 

He takes a careful step toward them. 

“Mom?” he asks, swallowing. “Mom?”

He moves closer and realizes he had not been imagining. 

She is lying in a pool of blood. 

He throws his backpack down and sprints into the room. He sinks to his knees. Blood pools into his clothing but he doesn’t care, _he_ _doesn’t care_ , because her lips are blue and her fingernails are blue and her eyes are lifeless. He scrambles to his father’s side and sees the same. 

Broken glass is littered around the floor. His mother’s blood is leaking through her temple—there are glass shards on her skin.

Neither of them are breathing. Both of them are completely, perfectly still. 

A chill grips his body. He shivers. 

He does not cry. 

The shivers shift to shakes. He stares at his dead parents, and he is cold, and he shakes, and he does not cry.

///

He throttles through the storage room, throwing things out of his way in a blind fury. It is so different than having to carefully place things down. He throws a glass bowl. It shatters. He does not care. No one— _no one_ —hears it.

He finds the shovel that he is looking for. He grabs a bag of potatoes from the floor. He grabs the backpack that he had just filled with his books. He grabs his sword from under his bed. 

He runs. 

There is nothing left for him here. 

///

Three days later, he reaches a clearing. He is exhausted. He has tried to run himself into the ground; he has failed. He is still alive. 

He does not know how far he has gone, but it is far enough. He’s certain he has left the SMP, at least—he’d long passed the border of soldiers that King Schlatt had ordered around the SMP’s perimeter.

Behind him is a clump of trees. Beyond that is the country. 

Before him lies dirt. 

Dirt and sand and dust, and nothing else. It is hideous. It is beautiful.

He puts his things down, grabs his shovel, and starts to dig. 

///

He tries not to think. He does not bury his parents, because he does not want to retrieve their bodies. The nation is on fire, anyway—his house will burn someday. He does not want the memory of holding their lifeless forms forever engrained into his mind. 

He digs their graves. He fills them with flowers. He carves their names into rock. He digs a spot in the dirt for the headstones to stand. He secures them with wet clay. 

He leaves. He swears to never return. 

///

He ignores the ink on his skin. It taunts him with false promises, false hopes—he is not stupid. He is not naive. He does not believe that anyone out there is looking or waiting or anticipating _him_. He covers what ink does appear—music discs, guitars, wings—and scowls at what he cannot hide. 

He does not stay in one place for too long. He moves steadily away from the field of dirt and sand—miles a day, trying to walk it from his thoughts, from his memory. He makes fires because he is cold and because at night, he needs light to read. He crafts a bow. He goes into the forest to hunt and is fuller than he has ever been—food is abundant. He is skilled. He can hunt anything that breathes. 

He does not live, he survives. 

He is not sure he knows what living is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last section with Techno all by himself--thank heavens, he needs a friend. 
> 
> If you want, let me know what you think! Comments / feedback mean(s) the world. Either way, thank you so much for reading! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your amazing feedback! It makes me so incredibly happy! We meet someone new this chapter (YAY) so I really hope you like it! :D

_twelve years old_

He is distracted. He knows this—he is not stupid. 

Everything is wrong. The sun is too bright. The light burns his eyes. His soreness from training yesterday makes each step a challenge. His thoughts are distant. His mind is cloudy. He falters where he would usually run; he stumbles where he would usually glide. 

He follows his usual routine—read, hunt, read, eat, read, sleep—but he distracted and he knows it. 

It’s when he’s hunting that he realizes working despite it had been a mistake.

There is a black-tailed deer in the distance, so he hooks his bow onto his back and scales a tree. As soon as he’s reached the top, he squints at the ground. 

The deer lolls at the mouth of a river, ears down and relaxed. It leans down to drink. He is notching his arrow and pulling the string back, readying to shoot—like he does every day, like he’s done a thousand times—when the deer shifts, and he spots a patch of white fur—glaring against the dark fur like a scatter of stars at midnight, like new flecks of snow against the dismal asphalt.

The memories conquer his mind, his thoughts, his vision. He blinks an image away, but a new one hurries to replace it. The cycle is endless. He sees his father sleeping, walking, snorting, laughing, and his mother eating, drinking, crying, lying in a pool of her own _blood_ —

_A_ _year_. 

Tomorrow, it will have been an entire year. Tomorrow, 365 days will have passed. 

He shakes with the feelings that he has buried for so long. 

He is distracted. He loses his sight, and, soon after, his balance. 

He falls out of the tree.

The ground floats toward him—faster and faster and faster and—

He reaches his arms out to break his fall. There is a shrieking _crack_ , and nothing more. 

The world fades away. 

Minutes later, he comes to. His skin is slick with sweat. His vision is blurry with tears. He sits up slowly, warily—and then he flinches. 

Omnipotent pain compels his eyes shut. It shoots up and down his left arm, radiates to his fingers, to his shoulder, to his _everywhere_ —he cannot see, he cannot think, he cannot breathe. 

He keeps entirely still. When he’s somewhat regained his capacities, he carefully glances at his left arm. 

It is completely misshapen—snapped halfway up his forearm, swollen to twice its regular size, swathed in deep black-purple bruises like a slaughtered plum. 

He stares, breaths shortening, eyes widening. 

“This is—this is not particularly fortuitous,” he manages, swallowing. 

He does not stand right away; the pain is too overwhelming. He lies tenderly on his hurt side, resting his arm beneath him. He tries to fall asleep, but his entire body throbs, so he settles for ensuring he doesn’t accidentally stop breathing. 

The sun sets and rises. The pain worsens with each passing second.

In the late morning, he realizes that he is an idiot. He is waiting for someone who will never come. He is waiting for help, for saving, when there is no one in the entire world who knows of his existence. He does not think he can stand up without passing out, but he has no choice—he braces himself and gingerly begins the ascent to his feet.

The world spins. He makes it, barely, and immediately slumps against a tree on his right. 

It takes him an hour to walk three hundred feet, but he makes it back to his makeshift camp. He rests for a quarter of an hour, then hauls himself up again and digs his sword out from the log he’d hid it in. 

He traipses through the forest closest to him, searching for moss and cobwebs. Bending to grab them is the hardest part, but after another couple of hours he’s collected enough to suffice. He slumps at the campsite for he doesn’t know how long before beginning to wind them around his arm.

He weaves leaves and grass together into something like a sling. Sweat drenches his entire body. His movements are shaky and inconsistent—he redoes the same loop eight times. 

As the sun sets again, though, he finally manages it. He stuffs the moss into the open, bleeding cuts, and mixes the cobwebs with wet clay to make something like a brace. He spins it tightly around his arm—from shoulder to wrist—wraps the sling over his head, and secures his arm inside.

He collapses onto his side. He falls asleep before he can even close his eyes. 

///

He wakes up with two thoughts. First, of pain. 

Second, of a field made of dirt and sand and dust. 

He knows he must rest. He knows it is stupid. 

He doesn’t care. 

He packs his things at an infuriating pace, and limps into the forest.

He does not know why, but he must return. He has avoided it this long. He cannot avoid it anymore. 

He is nauseous. His entire body aches. The throbbing in his arm has spread to his head—it pounds. 

It doesn’t matter. It has almost been a _year_.

///

The clearing looks different. He expects to see two graves—in the very corner, at the mouth of the forest. 

Instead, there are more than he can count. Rows and rows and groups and columns, all combining to form something like a legitimate graveyard.

He furrows his eyebrows and grips the flowers in his right hand tighter. His sword sits heavily on his back—a burden, a blessing. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands still, but, at length, he takes a deep breath, nods, and moves. 

The headstones, at least, are just as he remembers them. Time and wind have not knocked them over. Their surfaces are dusty, but otherwise unmarred.  His arm hangs limply at his stomach, so he kneels with extreme caution—right leg first, left leg second. He wipes the dust away and stares.

He means for the moment to be meaningful—it's been a _year—_ and it would have been, probably—his chest was clogging with unshed tears—if a pitchy voice hadn’t asked, “What are you doing?”

He jumps so violently that his arm jolts. He hisses in pain—bowing his head, squeezing his eyes shut, praying to whatever god is listening that it goes away before he passes out.

It does, thankfully, and he slowly opens his eyes. If there’s one thing he’s learned from hunting, it’s that it’s best to hide every ounce of pain possible. Injured animals are easy targets.

He thusly wipes all of the pain from his face. He missed his chance to remove the sling—he was distracted and the person somehow managed to creep up on him; they must be skilled despite sounding like a young, whiny, pathetic child—but it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. If he had taken all of the bandaging off, his injury would have been even more obvious. 

He takes a deep breath and, in one swift, excruciating movement, rises to his feet and turns to face the person. 

He was right. It is a child. A _young_ child—younger than him by at least half. His cheeks are hollow and covered in dust. His clothing is torn to the point of near uselessness. His shoes are three sizes too big. His lips are chapped. His skin is covered in shallow scrapes and old cuts. 

He…he reminds him of _himself_. This boy _looks_ like him—in both physical appearance and obvious lack of privilege.

The boy furrows his eyebrows. “Are you okay?”

“Why are you here?” he asks. 

“None of your bees-wax,” the boy says, and crosses his arms. 

He raises an eyebrow. “How old are you? Five?"

“No,” the boy says, scowling, lifting his chin. “I’m seven.”

“That changes everything," he deadpans. 

"You're weird," the boy decides.

He rolls his eyes. "Have you come here to die?” 

The boy recoils. “What?” 

“Dunno if you’ve noticed,” he says, gesturing behind him with his right hand, "but you've come to a graveyard.”

“I know that,” the boy says. “I’m not stupid.”

“You _are_ seven.”

“And?”

“And that’s a synonym of stupid.”

“You’re a jerk,” the boy snaps.

“Thanks,” he says. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I actually came here for a reason.”

“I _don’t_ mind. I hate you.”

“All right,” he says, and turns to face the stones again. 

He doesn’t hear receding footsteps. He doesn’t hear anything, actually, except for exceptionally loud breathing.

He sighs, squeezes his eyes shut, and raises his hand to rub his forehead. “Why are you still here?”

“How did you know?” the boy asks, sounding genuinely surprised. “I didn’t make any noise.”

“I have super sonic hearing,” he says dryly.

The boy’s sudden excitement is palpable. “Are you _serious?_ That’s so sick! What if I ran all the way over—”

He turns, eyebrows raised sardonically. 

The boy wilts right before his eyes—scowling, retreating into himself. 

He doesn’t feel guilty. He _doesn’t_. 

What he _does_ feel is…empathy. He _was_ this boy, once. Years ago. It's strange, almost. The connection that he feels.

“I hate you,” the boy says. 

“You’re not the first and you certainly won’t be the last,” he mutters, though he _doesn’t_ feel guilty. “So don’t feel special about it.”

Confusion rises in place of the boy’s petulance. He drops his right arm to his side—though his left stays pressed protectively against his chest. 

He furrows his eyebrows at the boy’s arm. Strangely enough, under the holes in his long-sleeved shirt, the boy has wrapped it in old cloth. Hiding something? Guarding something? Healing something? He is suddenly insatiably curious.

His own arm throbs mockingly, but he pushes the pain down. That is a problem for later. Not now.

“You’re really pale, you know,” the boy says.

“Lovely of you to notice,” he says blandly. 

“Did something happen?” 

His arm twitches like it knows its being thought of. Pain shoots up his arm, but he does not wince. “No,” he says. “Why are you still here?"

"To annoy you," the boy says.

"It's working," he says. "Why'd you even come in the first place?"

Flushing, the boy looks down, scuffs his toe agains the ground, and doesn’t respond.

“Something illegal?” he prods, eyebrow raising. 

The boy scoffs. “ _No_.”

He hums in disbelief. 

“I’m serious,” the boy snaps, looking up.

"You’re young, is what you are. And embarrassed.”

“Am _not_ ,” the boy growls, and only turns redder. “I’m _seven_.”

“Sure,” he says.

“I hate you," the boy repeats stubbornly, crossing his arms. "I’m not going to leave."

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can always make you.”

The boy looks him up and down, not moving his arm from his chest. “Reckon I could take you.”

He laughs. It’s sharp and sudden—harsh with unfamiliarity, hard with incredulity—and he flushes, too, in surprise. He can’t remember the last time he’s laughed. “Not a chance,” he says. “I’d beat you blindfolded _and_ hurt.”

“What happened, anyway?” the boy says, gesturing to his sling. 

“None of your bees-wax,” he says dryly.

The boy glares, bites his lip, and concedes with a short nod. “Fair enough.”

“I’m so glad you think so,” he deadpans. “You can leave now.”

“I already told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

He raises a hand to rub his forehead and to hide the random flinch of pain that’s overtaken him. “This is stupid,” he manages, and clears his throat. He lifts up the flowers in his left hand. “You’re clearly unfamiliar with basic social etiquette, but people are usually _respectful_ at cemeteries. They leave others alone to their mourning. It’s called being decent.”

“I’m better than decent,” the boy says.

“You’ve missed the point,” he says.

“No, I haven’t,” the boy says. “Who are you mourning?”

He gives the boy a flat look.

“Why is that so secret?” the boy demands, and shoves past him. “Fine. Be that way. I’ll just read it myself.”

“Can you even read?” he asks. 

The boy doesn’t answer. He squats in front of the headstones and squints at the crudely carved words.

“Who _wrote_ this?” the boy asks, laughing. “This is horrible! I’ve never even been to school and I could do it better.”

He narrows his eyes, hackles rising. “So you _can’t_ read.”

“I didn’t say that.”

He laughs scornfully—the same as the boy had. Not a real laugh. “Why did you come to a cemetery if you can’t even _read?”_

The boy spins toward him. “I didn’t say that!”

“You aren’t denying it,” he points out.

The boy’s flush is everywhere, now—on his cheeks, on his neck, on his ears. He scowls at the ground. “I _can_ read,” he says. “I’m at least better than Tu—” The boy slams to a stop, clamping his mouth shut. Dark shadows slip across his face, shroud his features. His gaze is in the past.

He knows that it is, because he recognizes that, too—knows it all too well. The feeling is back deep in his gut. _Empathy_. He wishes it would go away. 

It doesn’t. He sees the tears threatening the boy’s—the _child’s_ —eyes, and he, for whatever weird, out of body reason, decides to give the boy an out.

“If you promise to leave me alone,” he says carefully, “I’ll help you find whoever’s grave you’re looking for.”

“I don’t need help,” the boy says automatically. 

“You can’t read,” he reminds him. 

The boy opens his mouth to respond, but he hesitates before speaking, slumps, and—surprisingly—mutters, “Okay.”

“That doesn’t sound like a promise.”

“I promise,” he says, scowling at the ground, still clutching his left arm to his chest.

“All right. Finally. Progress. Who are you looking for?”

“I…don’t really know,” the boy says, and flushes again. He tugs at the hem of his shirt with the fingers of his right hand. 

“Short-term memory loss?” he asks dryly. 

“No. I don’t…uh. I don’t know their names.”

Irritated, he rolls his eyes and turns away—he’s expended enough energy on the boy already; he’ll leave him to his stupid games.

“No—wait!” the boy pleads, and scrambles to his front. “I’m serious!’ 

“And I’m done,” he says. “You’re an idiot.”

“No, just—can you please _listen_ to me?”

“You weren’t saying anything worth listening to,” he says. 

“My soulmates _died!”_ the boy shouts. 

He blinks. 

Sudden, suffocating silence blankets the clearing. All audible are the boy’s shallow breaths.

He hasn’t thought about soulmates since—

Well. 

Since he thought that they existed.

He thinks back to that conversation years ago. To all that he had read about them. To the many times he’d wondered if it was hopeless—if the black and white ink on his skin would never change color. To how, despite despising the very _thought_ of soul marks, he knows exactly where each one sits on his skin right now—the swirl of guitars on his calf, the music discs on his toe, the sets of wings on his shoulder. 

He blinks down at the boy. 

“Your—what?”

The boy clutches his arm tighter to his chest. “My soulmates,” he says, calmer now that he’s been given attention. “They died. All of them except one.”

“How many do you have?” he asks.

“How many what?”

“Soulmates,” he snaps, suddenly desperate for the information. “What else?”

“Four,” the boy answers, undeterred. 

He blinks again, trying to wrap his head around it all. Trying to wrap his head around the fact that it’s back in his life, that it's _real._

Is it, though? This boy is _seven._ What does he know of the world? Of the world’s truths? 

A long buried hope rises in his chest, though, and he cannot force it down. He so, so very badly _wants_ it all to be real. He _wants_ all that he read, all that he’d learned to be…

It might be _real_. 

He might have soulmates. 

This boy has soulmates. He…he might have them, too. 

He must have them, too.

The thought is as terrifying as it is exhilarating. What if he never meets them? What if he dies first? What if _they_ die first? What if—

He shakes his head. “There’s no way they’d all die,” he says, and maybe he’s comforting himself.

“But there’s no _color,_ ” the boy laments. “The marks are just black.”

He stares at the boy blankly. 

Then he snorts and slumps his shoulders—relieved or disappointed, he doesn’t know. 

“I’m telling the _truth!”_ the boy snaps—eyes glinting, chest rising. “I don’t even know how to lie!”

“That’s an issue,” he deadpans, taking a step forward, ignoring the pain that rockets up his arm. “And you’re an idiot.”

“What? Why?”

“You’ve met one of your soulmates, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” the boy says, furrowing his eyebrows. “How did you know?”

He disregards the question—the boy had as good as admitted it earlier: _all of them except one_. “And one of your—your _soul marks_ shows in color, doesn't it?”

“Yeah,” the boy says slowly, warily. "The other three are black."

He looks at the boy flatly. “The marks are black until you _meet_ the person,” he says, remembering what he’d been told, what he’d read. “Then they color.” He points at the boy’s chest. “Give me that arm.”

The boy’s expression shifts—curious, hopeful, confused—but at the command, he immediately retreats. A shield replaces his open earnestness—guarding his expression, guarding his thoughts, guarding his emotions. 

“Why?”

He rolls his eyes. “Is it broken?”

“No,” the boy answers. “It’s not even hurt.”

“Then there’s a soul mark on there,” he says easily.

The boy takes a step back, narrowing his eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Deductive reasoning," he says.

The boy scowls. "What does that even—"

He cuts the boy off with a sigh. "I know because you’ve been holding it this entire time, and it’s not hurt. There isn't much else you could be hiding.”

The boy’s arms shoot down to his sides.

"Smooth," he says, and rolls his eyes again. " Are your marks on there black?” 

The boy doesn’t respond, but the answer is obvious in his terrified eyes— _yes_.

He huffs, exasperated. “Just let me see. It’s not like I can do anything but look.”

The boy bites his lip. His voice is meek, worried. “You won’t tell him?” 

“What?”

“He’ll get mad if he finds out about them,” the boy mumbles, not meeting his eyes. “He’ll burn them off. You can’t tell him.”

He furrows his eyebrows. _Burn them off?_ “Who the hell are you talking about?”

At the annoyance in his voice, the boy glances up sharply. His posture relaxes a little. “You—what? You don’t know him?”

“Are you being ambiguous on purpose?”

“What does that mean?”

He drags his hand down his face. “Just—this is stupid. I don't know who you're talking about. Give me your arm before I slice it off with a sword.”

The boy doesn’t think anything of the threat. He glares, frowns, considers, hesitates, decides, and, with painful uncertainty, cautiously extends his arm. 

“Thank Ender,” he mutters. “Took long enough.” 

The boy’s shirt is far too large—his tattered sleeves stretch many inches past his fingertips—so he grabs the boy’s wrist with his right hand and pushes it up. 

His hands freeze. 

He stares.

“ _What?”_ the boy squeals, and yanks his arm back. He gapes at it with wide, exuberant, sparkling eyes. “It’s _pink!_ Oh, Ender! The crowns are pink! They were just black—I checked before we started talking! They were just black!”

_Yeah,_ he thinks. _That’s the issue._

He can't breathe. He stares.

The boy jumps up and down, grinning larger than anyone, ever, should be allowed to. “You brought him back to life!” he shouts. “You brought him back to life! I can’t believe it! Thank you so much! I didn’t want him to be dead!”

He stares. 

“He’s alive!” the boy yells—all joy, no comprehension. "He's _alive!"_

_Yeah_ , he thinks. _He’s standing right in front of you._

He thinks back to his conversation with the boy who’s name he’d long forgotten:

_Soul marks show up where your soulmates are hurt_. _They stay black and white until you actually meet the person._

He slowly shifts his stare to his left arm. His left arm—which throbs violently, which is wrapped in tired bandages, which is the same arm that the boy is grinning at. 

He doesn’t know how he missed it.

He doesn’t know how it—he doesn’t know how it’s _possible_. 

But he is practical, and the evidence is indisputable. 

The boy's soul mark was black and white before the boy talked to him. Now it is pink—which, seriously? _Pink?_ He thinks back on that awful word— _pig_ —and narrows his eyes, but digresses in the face of more pressing matters.

The pink soul mark is on the boy’s _left_ arm. The same arm that not three days ago he had shattered. The same arm that now rests in a sling across his chest.

He looks at the boy in front of him—the irritating, petulant, ridiculous _child,_ who clearly hasn’t yet connected the dots, who argues with everything he says, who holds himself too primly to have anything like an easy past, who reminds him too keenly of himself, who fears having his soul marks burned off just because they _exist_ —

He stares.

Overwhelming inadequacy consumes him. He can hardly keep himself alive—how is he supposed to keep them both alive? How is he supposed to care for this boy? For a _child?_ He hasn’t had anything like a proper example of care. His parents spoke to him once a week, when the dirty laundry started dampening the precious smell of alcohol in the house. He doesn’t have the time or the experience or the patience or the resources or the will to care for anyone. _Anyone_.

Let alone a _child_.

He considers just…walking away. Would it really be such a crime? Would it really be _that_ bad? Who would chastise him? Who would know?

But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. 

He doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed.

Either way, it is probably good. Morally, at least. Because surely, _surely_ , he can’t just leave his seven-year-old soulmate here. _Here_ , stranded, in the middle of nowhere, with only dead bodies around for a dozen miles, with no running water or running prey or—

“You look awful” the boy says plainly, pausing his celebrations to frown up at him. The boy's nose scrunches. “Are you going to die?”

“Ender save me,” he mutters, and rubs his forehead. 

_Of course it’s a child,_ he thinks. 

A quiet, long-suppressed voice in the very back of his mind whispers, _Better than no one at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yayyy for no more loneliness! At least for the next chapter or so, lol. This is angst, after all.
> 
> If you have a second, I'd love to hear what you thought! Either way, thanks so much for reading! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much for your comments last chapter! Every single one means so much!
> 
> This chapter is a little shorter, but I hope you still like it! <3

“This is the single worst decision I’ve ever made,” he says. 

The boy scrambles away from the rock he’d stopped to contemplate and scrambles up to his side. “So you’re not, like. _Lying_. Right?”

“I am,” he says dryly. “This is a kidnapping.”

The boy stumbles, clears his throat, and, after a moment, laughs awkwardly. “Oh, no,” he says, obviously attempting to disguise his discomfort. “Help.”

His eyes dart to the boy’s rapidly paling face. He doesn’t buy the facade in the slightest.

He furrows his eyebrows, and he wonders. Where this boy…where his _soulmate_ has been. Where his shadows came from. Why he—why he stutters and stumbles over his words when kidnapping is mentioned. 

Has the boy—

No. _No._ He will not prod. It is unfair of him to desire information he is not willing to offer himself. And, besides, he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. 

He _doesn’t_. 

The boy does not speak again.

///

“This is it,” he says, and gestures to one of his old campsites. He’d decided to stop at the one nearest to the clearing—his arm was making him dizzy, and this child’s silence was making him insane. If they walked another step, he was certain he’d pass out.

“This isn’t a house,” the boy says, sounding disappointed. 

“Never said it was,” he says. He drops his backpack on the ground. “Feel free to leave if you’re unsatisfied. I’m sure there’s a better pile of wood a few miles down.”

“I’m not saying that,” the boy grumbles. “All I’m saying is that it sucks.”

He doesn’t have the energy to defend his…admittedly pathetic camp. To be fair, he hadn’t been here in just over a year, but he doesn’t tell the boy that. His arm is throbbing. He pulls flint and steel out of his backpack and lights the wood.

“This fire couldn’t keep a horsefly warm,” the boy says, lowering down next to the fire. “It’s tiny.”

The words barely register. With no distraction to occupy his mind, the pain returns with striking vengeance. He slumps down, wincing with every inch, with every millisecond of movement. 

He adjusts until he’s lying on his back. When that’s too painful, he rolls onto his left. His arm squishes underneath him.

“We’re probably going to freeze,” the boy says, staring into the dim flames. 

“It’s—it’s not cold,” he grunts. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Tonight, I mean. Small fire because it’ll—” He stops, wincing, and continues through gritted teeth, “—it’ll be warm.”

He feels the boy’s gaze flick to him and stay. 

“Okay,” the boy says, and it scares him, slightly, how easily the boy trusts. 

It scares him more that if something were to come tonight—if some _one_ were to come—to attack or to steal, he will not be able to live up to that trust. He will fail this boy. It is the pattern of his life. It is set in his stars. It is inevitable. 

The flames’ flickers are too insignificant to disrupt the silence that follows. He swallows convulsively, trying to force the bile and pain to subside. He sweats at least seven gallons. His eyes do not open for fear of facing reality. It doesn’t matter, though—his arm is a constant, throbbing reminder.

At length, the boy quietly asks, “Hey, soulmate?”

He grunts his acknowledgement. 

“What’s your name?”

His eyes shoot open. He hasn’t been—he hasn’t been asked that in…

He takes a deep breath. Between them is a fire and a bunch of logs and five years, but, most markedly, an insurmountable gap of knowledge. Two different pasts. He looks at the boy who looks so much like himself, and he sees something he will never understand. He recognizes the glaze around the boy’s eyes as the one around his own—a shield, a guard, a mask. Always present. Hiding his secrets, hiding his darkness.

He swallows and opens his mouth to speak, when the boy’s mouth drops open. “Is that—oh my En—is that a _sword?”_

The boy leans over and grabs his backpack, pulls out his sword, and looks at it with wide, shell-shocked eyes. “I’ve never seen one of these before,” he whispers. “I’ve only heard about them. I didn’t even know if they were—they’re _real?_ I can’t believe that they’re real!” He shoots to his feet—all endless, boundless energy—and hauls it up. 

“Put it down,” he snaps, but cannot match the boy’s energy. All he can manage is to keep his eyes open. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

The boy turns to grin at him. “Maybe I’ll kill _you_.”

“You couldn’t,” he says. “Even with a sword.”

The boy swings it around and clumsily points the tip his direction. “You’re gonna die soon, anyway. You can barely stay awake. It’s ‘cause of your arm, right? I mean, I saw all the marks on my arm, so it must be.”

“It’s my thyroid,” he says dryly.

The boy’s nose scrunches. “Thyroid? What’s that?”

He rolls his eyes. “Sarcasm,” he says. 

“Oh, yeah. You use that a lot.”

“It’s my favorite language.”

Humming, the boy glances again at the sword. “That’s cool. Can you teach me how to use this?”

“No,” he says. 

“What?” the boy says, dropping the sword to his side, looking genuinely hurt. “Why not?”

Before he can think it through, he says, “Because I hurt my arm.”

“Ha! I knew it.”

He glances at his sling. “You’re a genius,” he deadpans. “How did you possibly figure it out?”

“You can still teach me,” the boy says. “You can just tell me what to do.”

“No,” he says. 

“Why not?”

“Well, first of all, I doubt you’re a very good listener.”

The boy scowls. “I am when someone says something good.”

“What qualifies as ‘good’?”

“Something I want to listen to,” the boy says, and crosses his arms.

“Yeah? And what when I tell you that you’re doing something wrong?”

“I don’t make mistakes,” the boy says. 

He snorts and rolls onto his back—the pressure on his arm is too much. He closes his eyes. “Right.”

“We’ll start training tomorrow,” the boy decides.

“Go to sleep,” he replies. 

“Okay.”

Quiet lasts forty-three seconds. 

“Wait—I forgot. What’s your name?”

He does not respond. He evens his breaths to feign sleep.

The boy must buy it, because his voice returns to a whisper. “Will you tell me what it is tomorrow?” 

He does not respond. 

After a long, silent moment, he hears the boy’s footsteps approach. He tenses, but just as he’s about to break his facade and open his eyes, the boy stops and sinks onto the ground right beside him.

“Good night, soul mate,” the boy whispers, and falls right asleep.

Sleep doesn’t find him for a long, long time.

///

When he wakes up, the sun is high in the sky. The campsite is shady, but the rays are piercing, and they slit through the tree’s leaves easily. 

He blinks sweat out of his eyes—he is drenched in it—and tries to sit up. His entire body aches, but his left side is completely immobile. 

“Finally,” the boy says, walking toward him.

“Damn,” he mutters. “I thought you were a nightmare.”

The boy scowls, but his eyes are light. “Nope.” He pulls his sleeve to his elbow and lifts his arm. It is still covered in pink crowns. “Proof.”

He wonders briefly why his soul mark is a _crown_ , of all things—indeed, he wonders more why it is _pink_ —but he sees a pile of something in the corner of his eye and forgets to ask. “What is that?” he asks instead.

The boy turns to follow his gaze. His grin drops. He flushes a little. “Your arm’s really bad.”

“Good to know.”

The boy nods. “I kind of…found this stuff. While you were sleeping.”

“Nice,” he says. 

“No, it’s—you don’t understand. They’re ingredients for a poultice. To reduce swollenness.”

“Swollenness," he repeats blandly.

“Swelling,” the boy says, scowling again. “Same difference.”

He turns his gaze to the boy. “It’s probably poison. You’ll steal my sword and run.”

The boy rolls his eyes. “If only”

The question is on the tip of his tongue— _how’d you learn to make it?_ —but their pasts are their own, so he bites it away. 

Instead, he stares. 

This is his soulmate. This is his…this is his _soulmate_. This is one of the people—one of three people, to be exact—that the universe decided belongs in his life. That the universe declared _his_ , and he is their’s. 

This is his _soulmate._

This is a boy that he’d met _yesterday._ This is a boy that he'd met yesterday who had woken up early to make him a poultice.

To make him a poultice. 

_Him_.

“What’s your name?” he asks. 

“Tommy,” the boy says, and grins.

“Tommy,” he repeats.

_Tommy_.

His _soulmate_. 

“Don’t wear it out,” Tommy— _Tommy_ —says. “What’s yours?”

“Mine’s Tommy, too,” he says. 

Tommy gapes. “What—is it rea— _seriously?”_

“No,” he smirks.

Tommy glares. “I hate you,” he says. 

“That’s all right.”

“What is it? Actually?” 

Tommy gave a little, so he swallows his bravado and gives a little, too. “Depends on who you ask,” he says.

“Well, _I’m_ asking.”

“I don’t know much about you,” he says.

“Fine. I have a deal.”

He raises an eyebrow. 

“Tell me or else you have to teach me how to fight.”

“That's a horrible deal,” he says dryly. “It gives me nothing. Why would I make it?"

“It’s a win-win,” Tommy insists.

“For _you_.”

“Exactly,” Tommy says, shrugging. “It makes sense. I made the deal.”

“That’s not how—” He cuts himself off, sighing. “I’m not even going to try.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a no.”

“Perfect! What’s it gonna be? Name or fighting?”

“Neither. How about this? I’ll go back to sleep, and you make that—” he points to the ingredients, “—and put it on my arm.”

“Uh…yeah,” Tommy says, furrowing his eyebrows. “I was already doing that. They have to set in the sun before I can mix them.”

“Oh,” he says, at a sudden loss for words. _I was already doing that_. “Okay.”

“I should probably check on them, actually,” Tommy says, completely forgetting their previous argument, walking over to scrutinize the plants.

_I was already doing that_. 

He swallows. 

“I’ll teach you,” he says slowly, “when my arm gets better. In the mean time, you can call me whatever you want.”

Tommy grins at him. “Can I try and guess what it is?”

_You’ll never be able to_ , he thinks. _You can’t guess what doesn’t exist._

“If you want,” he says. “Seems boring to me.”

“Matthew. Nick. Natha—”

“Not now, idiot,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Poultice first. Then hunting. Then training—maybe. Then guessing.”

Tommy sighs. “Fine, Roy.”

He snorts. 

Tommy glances at him with bright, excited eyes, and whispers, “Was that it?”

“I’m going back to sleep,” he says. “Don’t ever talk to me again.”

Tommy smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Let me know what you thought if you have a second! :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the BEST!!!!! I love you all!! <333

“Ew,” Tommy says, looking at the malformation with unbridled disgust. The bone is still split in half, nearly peeking out of the skin at his wrist. “That’s just _gross.”_

He doesn’t feel much different. He’d hoped that the time and compression would have improved it somewhat, but, if anything, it’s _worse_ —tripled in size, black where it had been purple, causing him to bodily flinch with even the slightest movement.

Tommy scoops up a handful of the finished poultice and spreads it around his palms. With careful, practiced movements, he rests his arm on the log and applies it. It’s cold and numbing against his skin. 

To his astonishment, the swelling goes down almost immediately.

“What’s _in_ that?” he asks.

“I forget all the names,” Tommy says, shrugging. 

“Great,” he says, gritting his teeth as pain shoots up into his shoulder. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

///

The poultice works. 

“I told you it would,” Tommy says, smirking. “I’m probably the smartest man in the world.”

“You’re a child,” he says.

Tommy glares at him.

“Besides,” he continues, “you can’t even remember all the names. There’s no way you came up with it yourself.”

Tommy’s expression closes immediately. He looks down, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the grass. “I didn’t,” he says quietly.

He sighs—he’d pushed too far. “You need new shoes,” he says. 

Tommy looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “Do you know how to make them?”

“What? No. I know where a retailer’s is, though. On the edge of the SMP.”

“Do you have money?” Tommy asks, scrunching his nose. 

“Obviously,” he says. “Look around you.”

Tommy does, and sees literally nothing. He turns back, eyes sparkling. “Are we going to _borrow_ them?”

He snorts. “Not quite. I think you need a vocabulary lesson.”

///

They put of travel for a couple of weeks to ensure his arm doesn’t relapse. Tommy applies the poultice every morning. When he’s finished, he wraps it in clay and mud, and makes him lie with it in the sun until it hardens like a cast.

When he’s securing his arm in a sling a few days into this process, Tommy asks, “Can you teach me to fight now?”

“Not yet,” he says. 

Tommy twists his lips to one side, bouncing up and down on the toes of his feet, twirling his fingers together at his stomach. “I really want to learn,” he says. “I’ll be good, promise. I _am_ good already, probably. I think I’d be an amazing fighter.”

“We’ll see,” he says. “But I have a better idea.”

///

Tommy doesn’t like his idea at all. 

“I told you, I can _already read.”_

“Prove it,” he says, and hands him an open textbook.

Tommy swings his glare to the pages. “Fine. I will. Where do I start?”

He moves to sit at Tommy’s side and points to his favorite paragraph. 

Tommy squints at the book, rubs the back of his neck, and, slowly, begins reading. “Desp…despise?”

“Despite.”

“‘Despite being out…outnu… _outnumbered_ , the Gree—Greeks?’”

He nods. 

“Despite being outnumbered, the Greeks held’… _what?”_ Tommy demands, whirling to face him with scowling, incredulous eyes, stabbing his finger against the next word on the page. “This is so unfair! How am I supposed to know that? It’s not even a word!”

He snorts. “It says _Thermopylae_.”

“Yeah, I know. I knew that. But it’s not a word.”

“It _is_ a word. From a long, long time ago. It was a place in a country called Greece.”

“The only country _I_ like is the SMP.”

He looks at Tommy, eyebrows raised. “You like it right now? Even with the new king? Even with the war?”

Tommy’s eyes dart to the ground. He swallows heavily, mask returning, and shrugs. “The war part sucks,” he says quietly. “So does…so does the…so does he. I don’t…I mean, I don’t really, uh. You know. Like him. That much.”

“You aren’t the only one.”

Tommy glances up at him. “You don’t, either?”

“I don’t like governments in general,” he says, thinking of all the amazing things they’d ever done for him. “But Schlatt specifically…I don’t know,” he says, and shrugs, too. “I haven’t been in the country for a long time. All I know about him is that he led a coup and started a war.”

“What’s a coup?”

“When someone takes over the government. Illegally.”

“Oh,” Tommy says. “But…you like him? Don’t you think that starting a war is bad?”

“I don’t really care,” he says candidly. “It doesn’t really affect me.”

“You only care about what affects you?”

“I’ve been alone for a long time,” he says. 

Tommy furrows his eyebrows at the ground.

“Anyway,” he says, shaking his head to shake off the sudden, unwanted tension. “Keep reading.”

Tommy blinks out of his thoughts and flicks his eyes back to the page. “Where was I?”

He points. 

“‘Despite being outnumbered, the Greeks held Thermop— _Thermoplay_ —‘”

“Thermopylae,” he corrects. 

“Right. That. ‘The Greeks held’ that ‘for two days. The Per—Persian army sent an an—anvil—‘”

“ _Envoy_.”

“What does that mean?”

“Messanger.”

“‘The Persian army sent an envoy to sug— _suggest_ the Greeks surrender. First, the envoy demanded the Greeks put their weapons down. The Greek general refused, only—re…replying?”

He nods. 

“‘—only replying, _Come and take them_.’” Tommy turns to him, eyes wide. “Did he really?”

“Keep reading,” he prompts.

Tommy turns back to the book, smiling a little, excited. “‘Ir— _irritated_ by his ob’—what does that say?”

“Obstinance,” he says. “It means being really stubborn.”

“Like you?”

He scowls. “Like _you_.”

Tommy grins. “‘Irritated by his _obstinance_ , the envoy threatened him. _Our arrows will block out the sun_ , he said.’” He looks up again. “What? Why?

“Because there were so many. There were 300,000 Persian soldiers and only 6,000 Greek soldiers.”

Tommy gapes. “Why would they _fight_ that? Are they stupid? They should have run away!”

“The Persians were moving toward mainland Greece. If the Greeks ran away, the soldiers in the mainland wouldn’t have had enough time to prepare for the battle that was coming. They would have gotten destroyed _and_ lost their home.”

“So they were really brave to stay and fight.”

“Very,” he says, nodding. “Keep going. I think there are only a couple more sentences.”

“Okay, uh…‘Irritated by his obstinance, the envoy threatened him. _Our arrows will block out the sun,_ he said.” He stops to squint, before continuing, “The general replied, _Then we shall fight in the shade_.’”

Tommy pauses, staring at the book with bright, wide eyes. When he continues, his voice is softer. “‘And so the battle began. The Greeks were the far sup—supier—’”

“Superior.”

“‘— _superior_ fighters. The Persians were slaughtered. According to a Greek phys— _physician_ , only three Greeks died. The tide turned on the third day of fighting, when a Greek traitor reported the Greek’s tactics to the Persians, dooming them. Still, rather than ret…retreating, the Greeks chose to fight to the death.” 

Tommy frowns. After a quiet moment, he looks up and asks, “Did they all die?”

“No,” he replies. “A few got away. Most of them died, though.”

“They sacrificed themselves,” Tommy says.

“Yes,” he says. 

Tommy stares at the book for a long, long time. 

When the silence gets too heavy—he has a strong inkling that Tommy has retreated into his past—he says, “Well, all right. You _can_ read.”

Tommy swallows, blinks, and looks up, smiling a little shakily. “I told you.”

He stands and reaches out his hand for the book, but Tommy bites his lip, flushes. “Can I…I mean, can you help me learn? To read better? I had someone try to teach me, and she was good, but she wasn’t…I mean, she was smarter than _you_ , obviously, but—”

“You’re an idiot,” he says. 

Tommy flushes. 

“We’ll do more tomorrow,” he says. 

Tommy almost smiles. 

///

“I think someone has to set it,” he says. “Which is unfortunate, since you’re the last person on the planet I’d ever let do that.”

“I’m strong,” Tommy says, glaring. 

“Uh huh,” he says. 

“I can do it,” Tommy insists.

“I’m not letting you _re-break_ my arm, Tommy.”

Tommy scowls. “Well, your loss, because it’s not going to get any better on its own. The poultice will only keep the swelling and bruising away.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s a non-union break. I read about it once. It won’t heal unless it’s set.”

“Then let me set it!” 

“No chance,” he says. 

“Why _not?”_

“You’ve never done it before, for one.”

“First time for everything!”

“That’s not—” He cuts himself off with a snort. “You are clinically insane if you think that will convince me in the _slightest_.”

Tommy scowls. “I have more reasons, too.”

“I promise you, you’re not strong enough.”

“Am too!”

“Also, you’re _seven_.”

Tommy glares. 

“We’ll start training without it fully healed,” he says. “I’m better with my right, anyway.”

Tommy is appeased.

///

“I don’t want to guess what your name is anymore,” Tommy tells him. 

He shrugs, not lifting his eyes from his book, not peeling his thoughts from a dark table covered in snow, covered in salt, covered in death. 

“Will you tell me?”

He doesn’t reply. 

“You’re so boring,” Tommy sighs. “Soulmate it is, then.”

///

They only sneak to the outskirts of the SMP. The trip is exhausting—it takes them four days to make—so when they finally arrive, neither of them have much motivation to go any further than strictly necessary. 

They set up camp for the night. In the morning, they steal into the shop.

“We’ll have to be fast,” he murmurs to Tommy. “We don’t look like we belong here.”

“We _don’t_ belong here,” Tommy says. “We don’t have any money.”

He flicks his ear.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“ _Quiet_ ,” he hisses. “Do you want us to get caught?”

“No,” Tommy says, slumping, sulking. “But it _would_ be funny.”

“Are you— _what?_ Just—stop talking. Forever.”

The retail store is big, but he navigates it easily. He leads them to the shoe section.

“Try to find your size,” he mutters. 

Tommy gazes at the racks with wide eyes. “I can get _any_ of these?”

“As long as they fit in my backpack.”

It takes Tommy ten minutes to decide—so much for being low-key—but it only takes seconds for them to stuff them into the backpack and walk out the store.

As usual, no one notices.

When the SMP is out of sight, Tommy turns to grin at him. “That was fun, but that was scary.”

He smiles a little. “Get used to it,” he says. “It’s our most reliable source of income.”

///

The first training session is hell. _Actual_ hell. Hell _embodied_. 

Not, surprisingly, because of Tommy. He’s actually impressed with how well Tommy listens. He’s far too eager and far too passionate, of course, but anything else would have been disappointing. 

It’s hell because of his arm. 

He doesn’t let it affect him—when he instructs or when he demonstrates—and he certainly doesn’t let it show, but as soon as they’ve finished, he limps back to camp, sinks onto the floor, and slams his eyes shut, sweating profusely. 

Tommy notices, he’s sure, but either exhaustion or gratitude compels his mouth shut. That’s surprising, too—Tommy’s never shown any semblance of sensitivity.

Tommy sits across from him, staring at the ground with furrowed eyebrows like it’s a puzzle he can’t figure out. 

He falls asleep.

///

They work through all the books in his backpack, so the next time they return to the SMP, it’s in search of a bookshop. They’re in and out in minutes. It’s easy, now that they’ve done it a couple times, now that Tommy’s a bit older. 

They fall into a routine. Traveling. Reading. Studying. Fighting. Training. Stealing. Eating. Sleeping. Resting. It isn’t all at once, and it is far, far from consistent, but one day he opens his eyes and he realizes that he doesn’t hate it. He isn’t looking forward to it, but he isn’t dreading it. 

Things are okay.

His arm is still misshapen, but his body is growing numb to the pain. He sometimes catches Tommy frowning at soul marks—the pink ink grows darker with each day that passes—but he keeps it hid in a sling. He applies the poultice himself, now—he does not want Tommy to see how thin it is, how gray.

He catches Tommy searching for his other soul marks, too.

He knows his own mark is a crown. Other than that, though, he can’t tell. He knows that Tommy has three more—four in total—but Tommy hides them out of habit: covering them with clothes, smearing over them with dirt, concealing them from any searching eyes.

He _despises_ that life has compelled him to develop that habit.

He tries to let Tommy know that he doesn’t mind—that he’s not like the man who’d threatened to burn them off—but he doesn’t know if he’s just being selfish. If he only wants Tommy to stop hiding them so that he can see them, so that he can know what they look like. If Tommy is more comfortable hiding them, why shouldn’t he let him? 

That fear stops him. He doesn’t like when Tommy pries, so what gives him the right to? Nothing. They are both entitled to their pasts. They are both entitled to their secrets. 

Sometimes, though, it surprises him how badly he wants to know everything about Tommy’s past. Or, even more surprising—how badly he wants to tell Tommy everything about _his_ past. 

But knowledge is a special kind of burden. One he wouldn’t dare share when he could avoid it. One he wouldn’t dare shoulder unless he was forced to. 

So they continue together. 

And, as the months go by, he starts to wonder if this is more than surviving. 

If, finally, he has started living. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for your awesome feedback! I love all of you!
> 
> This chapter is longer than the last few. It has some fluff (that a couple of you guessed was coming!), but it's pretty angsty, so... Hope you enjoy! :D
> 
> tw // mentions of kidnapping

_thirteen years old_

“What’s wrong with you today?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Tommy says, not meeting his eyes. 

“I know you know what that says,” he says, pointing to the word.

“I do,” Tommy grumbles.

“What is it, then?”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Can we just _not_ do this right now? Or ever?”

“You’re the one who wanted to learn,” he says. 

“That was months ago. I just want to…” Tommy trails off, pushing the book off his lap, hugging his knees to his chest, ducking his face into his arms.

Sighing, he grabs the book from the ground. “Seriously,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Tommy growls. “I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” he says.

Tommy scoffs. “Stop looking at me.”

“I’m not looking at you.”

“Well, you’re—you’re _thinking_ about me. That’s just as bad. So stop.”

“All right,” he says, and thinks: _Five, four, three, two_ —

Tommy’s shoulders slump. “It’s…not you. I’m not mad at you.”

“Good to know,” he says. 

“It’s just…today’s my friend’s birthday.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

“I’ve been counting,” Tommy mumbles. “On a rock. I had it with me when I found you, and I bring it with me when we move camps.”

He squints into the horizon, watching the red sunset with unseeing eyes. “That’s nice,” he says dumbly.

“I miss him a lot,” Tommy says, not needing prompting to continue. He’s grateful—he wants to make Tommy feel better, but he’s useless in this kind of conversation. “I haven’t seen him since…well. Since before.”

“Before what?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Tommy says, obviously lying, burying his face in his small arms. His voice comes out muffled. “It’s just been a while, is all.”

“This must be your soulmate,” he guesses, resisting the temptation to pursue the truth.

Tommy nods. “I’m almost eight now, you know.”

“That’s nice,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Tommy mutters, a little wistful, a little bitter. “I haven’t seen him since I was six.”

“Two years,” he says. “That isn’t _too_ long.”

“I guess not,” Tommy says. He lifts his chin to rest on his arms and watches the sun set, too. “I used to think that just one _day_ was too long, you know? Now it’s been two years. And the man that…well. He doesn’t like me very much. So that made me miss my friend even _more._ I was scared that I was going to…I thought I was going to be there forever. Then I found you.” Tommy’s glances at him, features pulling in disgust, but there is something fiercely loyal, fiercely loving in his eyes that contradicts his next words. “Which sucks, but whatever.”

He ignores the last words, too lost in trying to fit the pieces together. His forehead scrunches. The man must be…must be the man that took Tommy, surely? He thinks back to Tommy’s reaction to the word _kidnap_ —the man that took him from his friend must be horrible. Which, granted—not entirely surprising. He is a kidnapper, after all. How good can he get?

He chooses the least invasive question he can think of, with hope that it won’t startle Tommy away. “So you were with him—the man, I mean—when you came to the cemetery?

“Well…kind of. He sent me out to find some bonemeal. I got lost.”

“Does he live in the SMP?”

Tommy nods. “Right in the middle.”

“You must’ve gotten really lost. The clearing is miles away from there.”

“Well,” Tommy says, choking a laugh. “I, uh. I didn’t really want to go back. I kind of…wandered. And then I saw a sign for the cemetery and I thought that all my soulmates were dead, except my friend, so I…”

“Came to check?”

Tommy nods. 

The sun falls behind the horizon. Darkness begins its nightly siege of the sky. 

“Well,” he says at length, “we could, uh. We could make him something. Your friend, I mean.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Only if you—only if you wanted to. You know.”

Tommy spins toward him. “You mean it?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

Tommy jumps to his feet, grinning, clapping his hands together. “I know exactly what to make!”

///

“We can’t _make_ a beehive,” he says dryly. 

“Yes, we can!”

“No, we _can’t_. We can find one, but we can’t craft one.”

“Not a _real_ beehive, stupid. Just one out of logs, or something. A wooden one. A small one.”

He sees the hope in Tommy’s eyes, and he sighs. He’s becoming a _pushover_.

The knowledge doesn’t change anything.

“You’re making dinner tomorrow,” he says, resigned. 

Tommy grins.

///

“But yesterday you told me to hold it like _this!_ How can I be doing it wrong?”

“You weren’t listening,” he says. 

“Yes, I was!”

“No. You thought you had it right, so you stopped listening. If you _had_ listened, you’d know that this form uses an altered grip.” He slides one of Tommy’s hands down the hilt of the sword.

“Does it even _matter?”_

“Technically, yes,” he says. 

“‘ _Technically_ , _yes_ ,’” Tommy mocks, pitching his voice, rolling his eyes. His expression deadens and, glaring, he snaps, “Tech— _no.”_

Tommy is opening his mouth to continue—to surely repeat some variation of _I know I’m right!—_ when his eyes widen. The sword slowly drops to his side. His mouth falls open far farther than speaking necessitates.

He lifts a bored eyebrow at Tommy. 

“Techno,” Tommy repeats, and grins wider than he ever has. “ _Techno_. Oh, Ender. It’s _perfect.”_

He rubs his forehead long-sufferingly. “Do I even want to know?”

“Techno,” Tommy says. “Techno. That’s what I’m calling you. _Techno._ It’s brilliant!”

He looks at Tommy dryly. 

“I’m serious! It’s perfect! You’re always like _Oh, no, Tommy, you’re technically so wrong. You’re technically an idiot. You’re technically so bad at reading_ —”

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

“—and to all of that, I say tech- _no_. Technically, _no_. Techno.” Tommy stretches his arms out, tilts his head back, grins at the sky, and shouts, “I’m a genius!”

“I have never said that word in my life,” he says. 

“Liar! You _just_ said it.”

“For the first time _ever_.”

Tommy raises his voice in another terrible imitation. “Well, _technically_ for the first time ever. Technically I’ve never said technically in my life, technically.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“Dunno, _Techno_ ,” Tommy says, grinning. “You tell me.”

“I despise you,” he says. 

Tommy laughs. 

///

He doesn’t mean to let it catch on, but it’s _Tommy_ , and if there’s one thing to know about Tommy, it’s that when he sets his mind to something, he always, always gets it. 

Besides, he doesn’t hate it. He rather likes it, actually. A lot. 

_Techno_. 

It catches on. 

He doesn’t mean for it to, but he doesn’t make any effort to stop it.

_Techno_.

///

“Time to go,” he says, and pushes Tommy’s shoulder. 

Tommy blinks blearily, sits up, and rubs his eyes. “Already?” he mumbles. 

“Yep. All the food here is gone until spring. We’ll head back up the river, I think.”

“I don’t feel like walking,” Tommy groans. “I’m sore from training.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “Stand up.”

“Can’t I just sleep a little more?” 

“Nope.”

“You’re the worst,” Tommy says, but stands up and starts collecting his things. 

“Thanks.”

///

“No,” he says. “We want to be downwind.”

“So that they can’t smell us?”

“Right,” he says. “Now watch.”

Tommy stays perfectly still.

With one hand, he unhooks his bow from his shoulder and carefully draws an arrow from his quill. Like he’s done a thousand times, he notches the arrow, draws the bowstring back, and lines up his shot.

As the deer pops its head up, he releases the arrow. It pierces cleanly. The deer falls.

“Still think I could do better,” Tommy grumbles. 

“Not a chance,” he says, grinning. He stands from his crouch, gesturing for Tommy to follow him. “I’m the best around.”

///

One night, he finds Tommy’s rock. 

There are 914 tallies.

914 days since the man took him from his friend, from his home.

_914._

Four are circled. One is recent enough that he assumes it’s Tommy’s friend’s birthday. Another is 365 marks before that—his friend’s previous birthday.

The other two are from 327 and 695 days ago, respectively. Carved above the latter in tiny, nearly illegible script is the number _7_. Carved above the former in a slightly steadier hand is the number _8_.

He does the math: 38 days.

///

“Can you teach me how to write?” Tommy asks.

He jumps, slumps, sighs, and turns. “You’ve got to stop doing that,” he says. 

“Maybe you should just listen closer.”

“Oh, yes,” he says dryly. “Blaming me is a surefire way to get me to teach you.”

Tommy twists his lips together, glaring at the ground. “Well? Can you?”

“I’m not very good,” he admits. 

“I remember,” Tommy says.

He raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “ _You_ try carving into a headstone.”

“Maybe I will,” Tommy says.

“It won’t be comparable unless someone you know just died,” he says without thinking. “Your hands won’t shake the same.”

Tommy looks at him with wide, surprised eyes—it’s the first time he’s ever brought it up. 

It’s funny, he thinks, how they know everything and nothing about each other. He knows that Tommy hates the color orange and that he can’t sleep more than three feet away from another human and that his hair is a disaster in the mornings and that he prefers nearly any food to mushrooms, but he doesn’t know the name of his best friend. 

He doesn’t know where he’s been. He doesn’t know what he’s done. He doesn’t know who he’s known, who he’s loved, who he’s feared. 

“Oh,” Tommy says, nodding eight thousand too many times to ever pass as casual. “Yeah, that…that would—I can imagine that would make it—”

“We’ll start tomorrow,” he says. 

He turns and walks away.

///

He’s teaching a form when Tommy pauses to look up at him strangely. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Who—who _taught_ you?” Tommy asks, breathing heavily. 

“Taught me what?” he asks. 

“How to fight,” Tommy says. 

He shrugs, flushing a little with the attention. “No one, I guess. I just...had a lot of free time.”

“But, like,” Tommy says, moving his hands to his head to open up his lungs, “no one taught you the forms? You just made them up?”

“I mean, I read a couple of books about swords,” he says, though those concerned the making and history of swords, not the wielding. 

“Of course you did,” Tommy laughs. He drops his hands to his sides. “It’s just…crazy to think about. That you made them all up. You’re like a professional. I mean, I bet you could make money off of fighting. You’re probably the best in the world.”

He blinks in surprise and flushes even more. “Don’t know about that,” he says, laughing awkwardly. He scratches the back of his neck. “You’re just trying to distract me so you can catch your breath.”

“You caught me,” Tommy says dryly. “But I’m serious.”

He shuffles his feet. “I’m not half as good as real sword fighters.”

“But you _are_ a real sword fighter. You could really make money!”

“Not with an arm like this,” he says, nodding toward where it hangs limply at his side.

“Well, after it’s healed.”

“If it ever heals.”

“You’re such a pessimist,” Tommy says. 

He glances back up, smiling a little. “You just learned that yesterday.”

Tommy beams. “Writing helps me remember the words better, I think.”

“I should have thought to start it sooner,” he says. “We’ll do it more often.”

///

_fourteen years old_

He wakes to poorly suppressed sobs. 

He jolts upright, blinking sleep from his eyes, searching for the source of noise in the dying firelight. 

He finds it easily. Tommy has retreated to the opposite side of the fire. He’s hugging his knees to his chest and shaking with effort of keeping his tears quiet. 

He stares much longer than he probably should, because he’s had to deal with Tommy sick and Tommy somber and Tommy screaming and Tommy sorrowful, but Tommy _sobbing?_

He doesn’t think he’s cut out for it. 

With a deep breath, though, he steadies himself, stands, and carefully moves to Tommy’s side. 

“Tommy?” he whispers. 

Tommy jumps and looks up like he’s been caught committing the worst possible crime. His entire face is puffy and blotchy and scarlet. Giant tears spill from his eyes to his chin. 

He swallows his uncertainty and says, “You’re okay. It’s just me.”

“Tech—Techno?” Tommy manages, hiccuping.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s me. It’s—it’s Techno.”

_Techno_. 

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” he says, sobbing, shaking his head. “I di—didn’t mean to—I’m sorry—I shouldn’t—shouldn’t be—”

He wraps his unhurt arm around Tommy’s shoulder and pulls him close, because, in all honesty, he has no idea what else to do.

“It’s all right,” he— _Techno_ —whispers. “It’s all right. Just…just breathe, okay? You’re gonna be fine.”

Tommy slumps against his side. His body shakes with sobs. “I had a—a _nightmare_ ,” he manages. 

“I’m sorry,” Techno says awkwardly, patting Tommy’s shoulder. He winces—he feels like an idiot. He’s never done this before. “It’s over now. It’s just us.”

“It felt so real,” Tommy says in a voice far too small to ever belong to someone as strong, as passionate, as gregarious as him. He clutches the wooden beehive charm that hangs from a shoelace around his neck—he hadn’t once taken it off since they’d made it for his friend’s birthday. “He—he took _Tubbo_. He _took_ him. Just like—just like he took me. And he made us—made us work together. He got mad at Tubbo because he couldn’t read, and Niki wasn’t there to help him understand the words, so he—so he…” 

Tommy trails off, turning his face into Techno’s shirt, and all running through Techno’s head is—

_Just like he took me._

He does the puzzle again. Tubbo must be Tommy’s best friend. Niki, he hasn’t heard of. _He_ must be the man that…the man Techno has long hated more than anyone on the planet. The man that took Tommy away.

Tommy collapses into sobs again, so Techno holds him tighter, closing his eyes. “You’re going to be fine,” he whispers. “You’re safe. Tubbo is safe. He won’t come for you, okay? I won’t let him. I promise.”

Tommy nods. He does not stop crying for a long, long time. 

Fury builds in Techno’s heart. He hates— _hates_ —whoever did this to Tommy. Whoever instilled this fear. Whoever caused this pain.

_I won’t let him_.

If only he knew how naive promises were.

///

When he has counted to 38 on a rock of his own, he leaves Tommy at the campsite—he’ll be fine, he’s been left alone before—to find a lava pool and to ensure the surprise is not ruined. He brings his sword as a reference.

He stays up all night crafting. At one point, he thinks he hears a muffled snore, but he is too deep into his work to give it second thought. 

It’s a broad sword with a hilt of cobblestone diorite and a crisp blade, forged with iron and nickel and as many diamonds as he could manage—two. The diamonds are more for the aesthetic. They make the blade gleam when it’s spun; make it sparkle with soft, pale blues and glittery silvers. 

Carved into the hilt are the words— _Then I shall fight in the shade._ He remembers how Tommy had mocked his crude script in the cemetery all that time ago, so he takes his careful time. It still turns out horrible, but at least it’s legible. Tommy’ll get the idea.

It’s not the same quality as his sword—which is made of pure, unblemished spring steel—but it will pass. Tommy has long earned his own, but Techno’s not sure he’ll know the intricate differences.

In the morning, when it has finished and hardened and cooled, he treks back to the camp. 

“Hey, Tommy,” he greets as he emerges through the tree-line. He hides both swords behind his back. “Happy birthday. You’re five now, right?”

He expects a shout or a laugh or a scowl or a punch. He walks closer, though, and frowns.

He receives nothing. 

No one is there. 

///

He searches every second. He does not sleep for three nights straight.

But he is practical, and the evidence is indisputable. 

Signs of a struggle—scratch marks on the log, multiple sets of dragged footprints in the dirt, threads of rope littering the ground—surround him. There are bright red music discs on his wrists and his feet and his arms and his legs.

He sinks onto the floor. He drops his head in his good hand.

_Tommy is gone._

He squeezes his eyes shut, but he does not cry, because he is not surprised. 

He’s always been alone, hasn’t he? Everyone has always left him. Everything has always culminated in solitude.

He has had company for far too long. He has offended the universe. Punishment was inevitable. It's been a long time coming. 

He squeezes his eyes tighter—he covers them with his hand. He shakes with suppressed sobs. 

But he does not cry, because he is not surprised.

It is just the way of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nooooooo Techno D:
> 
> Hope you liked it! I'd love to hear what you thought if you have a second! Either way, thanks so much for reading—I really, really appreciate it! <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for being so awesome! I'm sorry about sadness last chapter D: There's a new character in this chapter, though—hopefully that makes up for it! Hope you like it! <3

Two weeks pass. He searches. He finds nothing. 

He is starving and weak and sleep-deprived. His muscles are exhausted. His arm is worse. The sun is glaring. He sweats.

On the fifteenth day, he stands without warning. He collects all of the things at camp and hauls them with one arm back to their last camp. Back to the lava pool.

His hands shake, but he burns everything that Tommy had touched, everything that reminds him of Tommy. No trace of him may remain. He burns clothes, shoes, blankets, books—everything save the sword he’d just made. Having a back-up sword is smart, after all. 

He’s walking away when something tumbles out of his backpack. It clatters onto the floor. He turns to look at it, expressionless. 

It’s Tommy’s counting rock. 

There are five circled tallies, now. The most recent is the final tally. Above it, in neat, focused writing, is the number _9_.

He bends down to pick it up, but ends up slumping to the floor. He grabs it in his right hand and clutches it to his chest—just like Tommy had clutched his soul marks to his chest the first day they’d met.

His hands are shaking, and he hates tears, hates emotions—especially emotions that show on the surface for others to see, to judge—and he hates crying, but he cries. 

He cries until his eyes burn. He cries until his throat hurts.

He cries until he has no tears left. 

There’s no one around to see or judge him, anyway.

///

He does not have a mirror, so it’s not until he finds a river and a reflection that he sees the markings on his skin.

Music discs. 

_Everywhere_.

In handprints on his face—like a slap, like a punch. In slashes on his back—like a whip, like a belt. In small circles on his upper arms—like a put out cigarette. 

He does not cry, because he is not sad. 

He shakes with rage. He is furious. 

He sprints away from the river. He grabs his sword and fights the air viciously, violently, dangerously. It builds deep within him—this unquenchable, uncontrollable, unbridled _fury_. It has been building for far longer than the last few weeks. It stemmed with parents who sent him to the pharmacy to worsen their illness, who didn’t like him half as much as they liked their highs. It fed on kids who didn’t smile when they laughed, who didn’t hold their punches on weekdays after school. 

It breaks on the child who sat on his back to wake him up, who tugged at his hair when he was frustrated with a form, who emulated his every move with clumsy awe, with flattering effort.  It breaks on the child who he had taken in out of obligation and stayed with out of love. 

It breaks—it breaks on the child who is _gone_.

He has checked everywhere. He followed the footsteps and found nothing. He searched all of their old campsites and found nothing. He scoured the SMP and found nothing. 

Tommy is _gone_.

He has always been wary of the consequences of releasing his rage, so he has kept it buried deep under the surface of his mind. There is so much inside of him—he has always feared losing control.

He fears nothing now. Everything he loves—everything he has ever loved—has left. Is gone.

So he discards the careful control. He spars with an intensity he has never allowed himself to have, with feelings he has never allowed himself to feel.

It makes him _powerful_.

He pictures each slash against the man’s back, against his arms, against his face—just as the man had done to Tommy, if the soul marks are any indication—which they _are_. But instead of with a whip or a cigarette or a fist, he pictures it with a _sword_ —killing him, destroying him, ending him.

It almost scares him, how much it _doesn’t_ scare him. 

He wants to kill that man. He _will_ kill that man, one day. He must. Nothing else will satisfy him. Nothing else will ever be enough.

He wants blood, and he will get it. If it’s the last thing he does.

Ice takes root in his heart.

///

He doesn’t know if days or weeks or months pass. He does not return to a river; he does not search his skin where he can avoid it. He pulls his sleeves over his fingers. He smears dirt over every red music disc that he happens to see. 

He tries to forget. 

He doesn’t eat. He liked to hunt, before, but now he can only see Tommy tripping over his own feet and Tommy hauling a bow far too big for him over his shoulder and Tommy wondering how to spot a pigeon in the distance and—

He doesn’t like to hunt anymore. 

He hunts, still, when he must, but he is angry. He kills far more animals than he needs to eat. He never misses a shot, but he wishes he did—perfection is a horrifying burden.

His hair grows long. He cut it, once, a year or two ago, when Tommy’s got out of control. He shortened Tommy’s with a knife, so he shortened his, as well—why not? 

He does not cut it now. It grows long past his shoulders. It is tangled and ratted and matted, but he does not care. 

He does not laugh. He does not smile. He does not try to live. 

He survives. 

He is angry.

///

At some point, he stops traveling. He finds a place to stay, and he does not move any further. The land is fertile and the animals plentiful, but that is not why he stops. 

He stops because he cannot walk any further. He stops because his mind is fading with each day that passes. He stops because without distraction, his arm is the center of his thoughts, and even the reminder of it makes him so nauseous that he cannot move. 

The reminder of something else makes him so nauseous that he cannot move, either, so he does not think of anything at all.

He sleeps. He stays. He does not move.

///

His head pounds with unprecedented vigor—blurring his vision, casting the world in a haze, in a shadow. His left arm is completely useless, so, world reeling, he pins his bow between a tree and his right arm, and uses his elbow to draw the string back. He crouches, aims, narrows his eyes, gauges his focus, and—

Releases.

“Clean shot.”

He jumps so violently that he drops his bow. In one motion, he’s drawn his sword, crouched, and spun around to face his first unlucky victim.

Something stops him from immediately attacking, though. Before him stands a middle aged man with blonde hair, a bulky, brown trench coat, and blue eyes that surely see right through him, they’re so bright. He has dirt smeared on his left cheek, but is otherwise completely clean.

The man doesn’t even glance at his sword. He doesn’t lift his arms or try to subtly move back in fear. All he does is raise an eyebrow. “Well? Don’t leave it to waste. There’re a lot of wolves ‘round here, y’know. If you aren’t fast, they’ll get to it before you do.”

Techno grips his sword tighter, head drumming, world spinning.

The man’s gaze finds Techno’s left arm and sticks. Something flashes across his face—something sharp, something shocked, something sad—but as quickly as it’s come, it’s gone, and he’s turning around, gesturing at Techno to follow, saying to himself, “What’s one more, then? I have plenty for myself, anyway.”

The man walks away. Techno furrows his eyebrows, but otherwise stays completely still—watching him, confused. 

When Techno doesn’t follow, the man pauses and looks over his shoulder. “You gonna let me fix that arm?” he asks. “How long’s it been like that?”

Techno drops his sword to his side, glances at his arm, and glances back up. His brain is too fuzzy; he cannot keep up.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” the man asks. 

“I can talk,” he snaps. 

“Sure you can,” the man says—almost kindly. “Follow me, then.”

He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t even _want_ to. 

He does. 

He doesn’t know why.

///

He’d forgotten what a house looked like. 

The man’s is small, but comfortable enough—with an overhang of twisting vines, a drooping ceiling, a birch table and chair, a white cot, and a dim fireplace in the corner. 

It smells like pine and oranges and ash; it smells like dried mango and smoked salmon.

It doesn’t smell like alcohol. It doesn’t smell like camp.

He pauses in the threshold. 

“Hop up on that bed there,” the man says, leaning over a counter to dig into his cupboard. “This’ll only take a mo’.”

He looks at the bed, but does not see it. His head hurts. He doesn’t move.

The man pulls a candle from the cupboard and lights it in the dying fire. Techno hardly notices the strangeness of it all—his mind is too far gone. The man sets the candle on the cot-side table and returns to the cupboard—now grabbing bandages and bottles of salt and liquid and green leaves and wooden planks. 

He dumps all of the supplies onto the table. When he’s finished, he turns to Techno.

“Ever had home surgery?” he asks.

Techno looks at him blankly.

The man clears his throat. “It may be real painful for a bit since I’ve got to re-break the bone, but I’ve studied all this a lot, so it shouldn’t be too bad. Go ‘head and sit down there. I’ll walk you through the process.”

Techno doesn’t move.  There is a heartbeat in his arm and in his mind and the world is spinning and—

“Kid?” the man asks, voice lilting with worry. He takes a step forward. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Techno grunts, and promptly passes out.

///

He wakes up under a heavy duvet. 

“Don’t move,” a man’s voice says quietly, and Techno has to blink eleven times to realize it’s the same man he’d been with before—to realize that in whatever pain induced haze he’d entered, he’d let a random man _take him into his house_ —

He hurtles off of the bed and immediately retreats to the farthest corner of the room. He sees his sword on the table and he frowns—why hadn’t the man hidden it from him? Surely the man wouldn’t want him having it, wouldn’t want him _using_ it—

The man sighs, slumping slightly where he stands. “Grab it, then,” he says, resigned.

Techno narrows his eyes. “Grab what?”

“Your sword.”

“I don’t need it,” Techno says, straightening his shoulders. “I’d beat you without it.”

“I don’t doubt that,” the man says, nodding. “You’re decades younger than me.”

Techno bites the inside of his cheek. After only a moment’s hesitation, he snatches the sword from the table and grips it tightly at his side.

“Careful,” the man says. “It hasn’t fully healed.”

Techno furrows his eyebrows. “What are you—”

It’s then that he realizes that he’d grabbed the sword off of the table with his left hand. 

His _left_. 

He blinks down at his arm. It’s shrouded in something white, so he can’t quite see the bone’s alignment, but it doesn’t look as off as it had. It looks… _normal_.

“What?” he mutters, mostly to himself, and transfers the sword to his right hand to get a closer look. 

The man scratches the back of his neck. “I would’ve given you warning,” he says, sounding vaguely abashed, “but you were already asleep. I didn’t even need to use anything to knock you out.”

His arm is sore in the slightly painful way that healed scrapes hurt when rubbed. It’s no longer excruciatingly painful to move. It’s—it’s _fine_. It isn't healed, but it's fine.

Techno stares. 

“That’s wax,” the man continues, misinterpreting his silence. “From a candle, you know. I need to re-wrap it soon, actually, since you’ve been out for the last little while. I—”

He frowns up at the man. “I’ve been out?”

“Yeah,” the man says. “Three and a half days.”

“ _What?”_

“Don’t be too upset,” the man says. “Your body needed it. Dunno what you’ve been up to, kid, but it’s sure as hell taken its toll.”

Techno stares.

The man pulls out a chair at the table and sits down. Another, new chair—looking rather hastily crafted—sits across from it. 

There are two chairs at the table. There was only one before. 

The man had made another.

“Come on, then,” the man says, and uncovers a loaf of bread before him. “We’ll eat together, if you feel up to it. I’ll re-cast it after.”

Techno stares. 

He doesn’t—he doesn’t understand. Anything. Is he supposed to just _trust_ this man? Is he supposed to go along with whatever… _game_ this man is playing? Surely he wants compensation for fixing his arm? Surely that’s the only reason he’s inviting him to stay?

Surely he’ll kick him out afterward?

He doesn’t want to wait to find out. He turns, pulls the front door open, and does not look back. 

Delaying the inevitable is stupid. Leaving is smart. 

Because if he doesn’t leave, he will be left. He cannot handle that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the (rocky) start of a BEAUTIFUL friendship :D
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought, if you have a second! Either way, thanks so much for reading! I love you all! <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all! Thank you SO much for your continued support—all your feedback has been incredible! <333
> 
> Don't worry—I promise Tommy will come back! Also, just wanted to remind everyone that some of the more intricate plot lines won't make sense until they've been told from the respective character's POVs. Essentially, all of the gaps in Tommy's storyline (and the others) will be filled in when those stories are posted. Hopefully that makes sense!
> 
> You guys are the best! Hope you enjoy this chapter! :D

He peels the wax away in careful layers, setting each strip aside until he’s amassed a pile that nears his shins. Reels of cobweb bind a wooden stick to his arm, keeping it straight. He peels that away, too. His skin is slightly creased where it had pushed into his skin, but otherwise completely unblemished. 

The swelling is gone. The bruising is gone. 

He stares.

He fists his hand. Pain trickles into his fingers, but it’s not the sharp, shooting, unbearable pain it had been. It’s light, sparking like an electric shock, but not anything, _anything_ compared to what it had been.

He stares. The sun sets. 

When it rises, he returns to the man’s property.

///

The temperatures drop.

He hides in the shadows and watches from the trees. He is in debt, and that is unacceptable. He must even the score.

The man goes through the same patterns. He wakes with the sun. He plants in the fields. On his way back inside, he tends to his animals. He eats at noon. He returns to the fields. He piles and packs crops away—presumably to sell all at once at a future date. He works until the sun sets.

Techno does not see any blaring flaws in the man’s system. He is intentional and efficient. He is smart and relaxed—if alone. 

On his third day of watching, though, he finds something lacking. 

Night falls. He climbs down the tree and heads into the forest.

///

He shivers. It is freezing, now. Clouds are pooling in the sky, preparing for an onslaught he is not eager to face.

He knocks. He waits. 

The man opens the door. There is still a thick layer of dirt on his left cheek. His eyes widen—looking happy, if bemused.

“Your bow is broken,” Techno says without preamble. 

The man blinks. “You’re back,” he says.

Techno shrugs. 

“It’s been three weeks,” the man says. 

Techno flushes a little, but his expression does not change. 

The man’s eyes fall to the bow. “You made this?” he asks.

Techno pushes it into his hands. The man accepts, scrutinizing it with raised eyebrows and shining eyes. 

“It’s not an alloy,” Techno says, fidgeting awkwardly. “It’s pure iron. I would’ve made it out of steel, but I couldn’t find—”

“It’s brilliant,” the man says. “I prefer the look of iron, anyway.”

“It’ll rust,” Techno mutters. 

“That’s all right,” the man says. He lowers the bow to his side. “It doesn’t rain much out here, anyway.”

“It’s about to snow,” Techno says dryly. 

The man smiles, flicking his eyes to the horizon. “You’re right. I’ll leave it indoors, then.”

Techno nods. He doesn’t meet the man’s eyes. 

After a long, stilted moment, the man swings the door fully open. “Let me fix your arm up again,” he says. 

Techno takes a step back. “It doesn’t need fixing anymore.”

“Dinner, then,” the man offers. “You must be cold.”

“I can feed myself.”

“I’m sure you can, but I have plenty to spare. Besides, I’ve already set the table.”

Techno looks past him to the home’s small, wooden table in the center of the room.

The hastily carved chair sits across from the original—shorter and wobblier, but managing to stand all the same. Serving bowls of carrots and radishes and mango and watermelon and what smells and looks like stew sit next to the centerpiece—a single tree branch.

He squints, trying to understand why the man has chosen a stick instead of a flower or an acorn, when his eyes land on the empty plates in front of either chair.

The table is set for two. The man had set it before Techno came. 

The man had set it for _two_.

Techno swallows. “Expecting someone?” 

“No,” the man says, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “Don’t have anyone to expect.”

“But—but there are two set-ups.”

The man shrugs. “Just in case,” he says.

“In case of what?”

The man watches him for a long moment. Something knowing crosses his features—something sad, something almost like a smile. “Come on in,” the man says kindly. “It’s cold, and I promise I’ve got enough.”

Techno stares. He isn’t sure what to say.

He won’t say that the man’s healing has done wonders for his arm. He won’t say that he is infinitely grateful. He won’t say that the man had been right—there must be many packs of wolves, because in the two weeks since he’s been here, game has been hard to find. He won’t say that he’s desperate for a real meal.

He certainly won’t say that he’d timed his arrival to line up with the man’s dinner—not for the sake of the food, but for the sake of the company, the invitation. 

So he doesn’t say anything at all. He ducks his head and moves past the man into the room.

The fire in the far corner crackles. The man clicks the door shut.

They sit without a word. The man looks comfortable—leaning forward, grabbing a ladle, dolling stew into his bowl—but Techno feels awkward. He twists his hands in his lap, staring blankly at his plate. 

The man finishes serving himself and stuffs a carrot into his mouth. As he chews, he glances up. He raises an eyebrow. “Well, go on, then,” he says, gesturing to the rest of the layout. “What are you waiting for?”

“Nothing,” Techno mutters. He grabs the ladle from the table.

He doesn’t raise his eyes, because his hands are shaking and he’s focusing hard not to spill the stew all over the man’s floor. 

If he had, though, he’d have seen the man’s encouraged smile. 

///

“There’s no need for that,” the man tells him. 

Techno shrugs, scrubbing fresh snow over the plate’s surface. 

“Really,” the man continues. “You don’t need to.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he says.

“Guests don’t usually do dishes,” the man says. 

“It doesn’t seem like you get a lot of guests,” Techno says. 

He doesn’t mean it to be harsh, but it comes off snappier than he’d intended. He bites the inside of his cheek and glances at the man from the corner of his eye, half expecting a scolding or an outright boot from the house.

But the man only snorts. “Fair point, I suppose. What’s your name, anyway? I don’t want to just call you _guest_.”

_Techno_ , he wants to say, to this man who’s been too kind and too thoughtful, to this man who had crafted another chair just for him and had set the table for _two._

But he thinks _Techno_ and his mind jumps to the child that was too loud and too passionate, to the child who had found him at the perfect time and left him at the worst possible, to the child he had searched and searched and searched for, to the child he doesn’t know if he will ever find.

He pauses his work, scowling lightly—not at the man, but at the thoughts.

The man raises an eyebrow. “Too far?”

Techno rolls his eyes to rid of the images in his retinas. He resumes scrubbing. 

“I’m Phil, if it makes any difference,” the man says. He rubs his clean cheek absently. “Dunno why it would, but I figured I’d mention it.”

Techno sets the plate beside the sink. It’s the final one. 

“It’s started up again outside,” the man—Phil—observes idly. 

The silence is stilted with nothing to busy his hands, so he clears his throat. “I like snow,” he says.

Phil smiles. “Me too. S’kinda hard to sleep on top of, though. Gets too wet.”

Techno looks at him from the corner of his eye. 

“Uh,” Phil says, gesturing randomly, laughing awkwardly. “That was my—that was my segue, if you didn’t notice.”

Techno _almost_ smiles. “Smooth,” he says. 

“I always am,” Phil says, scratching the back of his neck. “It was my segue to ask if—you know. I mean, you can, uh. Stay here, if you’d like. It’s just me, y’know, so I’ve got plenty of room.”

Techno stares.

“Well,” Phil continues—anxious or loquacious or both or neither—“Not _plenty_ of room, I suppose, but there’s the bed and the floor, so we can make-do. I—”

“I have to leave,” Techno says. Again, his voice comes out too sharp, too harsh—he winces. 

Phil doesn’t mind, though. He tucks his hands in his pockets and says, “Oh, I see. Where you headed?”

“I—uh,” Techno says, rubbing the pads of his fingers together. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Yeah? What kind of someone?”

Techno narrows his eyes. 

“I can’t help you if everything’s a secret,” Phil says plainly. “You aren’t giving me anything to work with.”

Techno frowns. “What? You aren’t—you can’t come with me.”

“Well, why not?”

“You—what about the animals?”

“I’ll figure something out,” Phil says. 

“What about your farm?”

“I’ve been looking for a reason to get away,” Phil says. He shrugs. “It’s mostly for the aesthetic. All the crops are long dead. I’ve no idea what I’m doing out there.”

Techno stares. 

Mostly for the—

_What?_

Despite himself, he laughs. It’s short and clipped, but it escapes him all the same. 

Because it’s so ridiculous, isn’t it? Planting and growing and harvesting an entire field—putting all the work in—for the _aesthetic?_ And yet it’s so, so consistent with his notion of _Phil_ —of this man he’d just met, of this man who’s far too kind and far too generous, of this man who wants to travel with him for Ender knows how long.

Phil laughs, too. “No, really,” he insists. “I’m a terrible farmer.”

“This time of year is difficult, anyway,” Techno says. “Normal farmers are hard pressed to produce, let alone…well…”

“Let alone me?” Phil says, grinning. 

Techno nods. 

“That makes me feel a bit better,” Phil says. “I’m fairly new to it all. Just got here a few weeks ago.”

Techno wants to ask where he’s been, what he’s seen, who he’s known, where he’s going, but his confusion wins out. “And you’d just…leave it all? To come?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t need help,” Techno says.

“Never thought you did. It isn’t that kind of offer, anyway. Sometimes company is just nice, y’know?”

Techno twists his lips to one side. He _does_ know. That’s the problem.

Phil must see his resolve breaking, because he says, “I won’t ask any questions. We’ll just be two mates, wandering aimlessly through a forest.”

Half of Techno’s mouth lifts in a smile, but he says, “Won’t only be the forest. We’ll start there, but we’ll have to check the SMP, too.”

“Even better,” Phil says. “I used to live there, y’know. I can visit old friends, the like.”

Techno exhales deeply, considering. He drops his eyes to the ground and scuffs his toe against the tight-knit carpet. 

It is so, so selfish of him to want company again? To try and challenge the universe’s will again? But…it can’t hurt, can it? Attachment can, but help? Company? Surely they can’t destroy him. Surely he’s met his quota of the universe’s punishment.

After all, how much easier will it be to find Tommy with two sets of eyes, two pairs of ears? How much easier will it be to survive with another hunter? With another farmer? How much easier will it be to _live_ with another human?

So, _so_ much easier.

Techno bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t meet Phil’s eyes. “We’ll leave tomorrow,” he mutters, and winces in anticipation of the universe’s retribution.

It doesn’t come. Not yet, anyway.

“In the snow?” Phil asks. “We should let your arm rest a couple of days first.”

“No,” he says, thinking of the discs on his back, on his face, on his arms; thinking of Tommy’s smile, of his laugh, of his heart. “No. I’ve wasted too much time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a couple of chapters like this before the angst returns (with a vengeance!). For now, fluff! :D 
> 
> If you have a second, I'd so love to hear what you thought! Either way, thank you so super much for reading!! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys! Thank you SO much for your comments / feedback on last chapter! <3
> 
> This chapter is a little longer than usual (yay!), and I really hope you like it! :D

“There’s a river up north,” Phil says, tugging on his boots. “If we’re headed for the SMP, you may want to use it.”

“We aren’t,” Techno says. “We’ll go there last. It’ll take a couple months to check all of the camps.”

“Are all of the camps riverside?”

“No,” Techno admits.

Phil stands up, brushing his hands together. “Might want to take advantage, then, and bathe now.”

“You’re one to talk,” Techno says, narrowing his eyes at the dirt on Phil’s cheek.

Inexplicably, Phil’s gaze darts away. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and nods. “Fair enough,” he says. He swings his rucksack onto one shoulder and his new bow onto the other. “Let’s go.”

He walks out the door. 

Techno furrows his eyebrows, confused by the...by whatever that was. 

He turns and follows.

///

The first leg of their trip is silent.

He doesn’t like it. This… _tension_. It doesn’t make sense to him. He crunches through the snow and rubs his hands to keep them warm and wonders why Phil is so withdrawn.

After many minutes, he cannot take it anymore. He lifts his eyes to the purple dawn, swallows his hatred for initiating any manner of conversation, and asks, “You finished storing all the meat, right?”

“Yeah,” Phil says. “It should last until we get back.”

Techno doesn’t comment on the _we_ —too afraid that if he acknowledges it, it’ll go away.  Instead, he says, “We’ll be gone awhile.”

“S’all right,” Phil says. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

_I do_ , Techno thinks, thinking of some _one,_ not some _where_.

He doesn't introduce another topic. Conversation is overrated, anyway.

///

“Here’s fine,” Techno says. “We’ll reach an old camp in a couple of days.”

Phil sets his burdens down. He pulls a candle from the rucksack. “Let me re-cast it,” he says. “I’ve got to check on the infection.”

Techno scrunches his nose. “It was infected?”

“Yeah,” Phil says. “It’s why you were so sick when I found you. Happens when they don’t heal right away.”

Techno sets his things down, too. He starts the fire first—it’s freezing. He sits down in front of Phil, and watches the layers of wax carefully unwind. Underneath, his skin looks fine, if a little pruny. He doesn’t see signs of infection. “It’s better,” he says, flexing his hand into a fist like that's tenable proof.

“It _is_ better,” Phil says through a lens of focus, “but it’s not entirely healed.”

“I don’t see anything wrong,” he says.

The corner of Phil’s mouth quirks up. “You’re aren’t looking in the right places.”

He rolls Techno’s arm so that the inside of his palm is facing up. He points to a small lump of… _something_ —skin?—just under his wrist.

Techno frowns. “What is it?” he asks.

“Karma,” Phil says. “For not finding someone to help you.”

Techno scowls. “I didn’t have any options,” he says. 

“Parents?”

“Dead.”

“Friends?”

“Children.”

“Hospitals?”

“Expensive.”

“Haven’t you ever stolen anything?” Phil asks, turning his arm back over to resume his inspection. 

“Well, yeah.”

Phil raises a suggesting eyebrow.

Techno purses his lips against a laugh. “You think I should have gotten surgery and ran without paying?”

Phil shrugs. “In most cases? No. In this case?” He holds Techno’s arm up. “Why the hell not?”

Techno snorts.

“I’m serious,” Phil says. “I thought I was going to have to amputate it.”

“It’d make it easier to sleep,” Techno says, because he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to _amputation_. “Never know what to do with my arms.”

“You’re a morbid fella, aren’t you?”

Techno shrugs. “I’m an optimist.”

Phil laughs outright. “Uh huh,” he says. He lights the candle beside him. As he waits for the flame to melt the surrounding wax, his laughter trails off, and he glances up, forehead scrunched. “How long was it hurt for, anyway?”

Techno’s eyes drop to the candle. It’s insignificant next to the mighty fire he’d started, but it produces light all the same. He swallows and says, “Can’t remember. A few months, at least.”

Phil watches him, mouth pulled to one side, and Techno knows he sees the truth. 

It isn’t so difficult to spot. All it has ever taken is what Phil is doing now—looking close enough, searching long enough. 

He never wanted Tommy to see it, so he didn’t let him look, didn’t let him search. He was too young; he wasn’t ready to carry Techno’s burdens along with his own.

Phil…well. 

It doesn’t matter whether or not Techno wanted him to look, to search does it? He already has. 

He’s already seen.

///

Techno bolts upright.

He ducks his head between his knees and grabs his hair in his hands. His chest heaves with the monumental effort of breath—the air is too thick, the motivation too little. Sweat pours off of him in droves. He wrenches his eyes open and pins them wide with two of his fingers, because the darkness inside his eyelids is a canvas for horrible images to dance.

_It isn’t real_ , he tells himself, over and over and over. _It isn’t real. Tommy isn’t dead. He is okay._

He can’t know if it’s a lie or the truth. That’s the worst part. 

At length, he wipes his face and flops back in the snow. The firelight is strong enough that he can make out a bird’s nest in the tree above him, but dim enough that he can see the stars unblemished. He stares and stares at the unfathomable sky.

His vision clears. His breaths relax. His chills depart. He cannot fall asleep, though, so he grabs his sword and stands up. Sparring will wear him out.

As he’s turning to leave, he freezes. Phil is lying on his back a few feet away, fast asleep. Sometime during the night, he must have slept with his face in the snow, because the dirt on his left cheek has rubbed away.

His face is clean and, in the firelight, Techno stares.

A clump of black ovals are stitched into his skin. He steps closer, squinting to get a better view. It’s definitely a soul mark. The little desgins almost look like—

_Music discs._

He stares. 

His heart pounds. He turns and moves silently through the forest. 

He cannot find a river, so he kneels down and holds snow in his hands until it melts. He stares at his reflection.

There are a clump of music discs on his left cheek. They are scarlet, not black, but it doesn’t make a shred of difference.

He stands and picks up his sword.

///

Phil finds him. He waits until Techno’s form is finished to speak.

“I didn’t know you knew how to fight,” he says, stepping out of the shadows.

Techno jumps—dropping his sword, spinning to face Phil. 

There is new dirt smeared on his left cheek.

“You’re not half bad, y’know,” Phil continues. 

It’s not that Techno can’t lie. It’s that he hates being lied _to_. 

“What are you covering?” he demands. 

Phil blinks. “Huh?”

Techno gestures to his face. “With the dirt.”

Phil’s expression softens. Techno scowls—he doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean—until Phil murmurs, “You’ve seen.”

“I don’t know why you hid it in the first place,” Techno snaps. 

“It’s not because of you,” Phil says, shoulders slumping slightly. “I always try to hide them. Always have. Ever since I found out what they meant.”

“Why?” Techno asks.

Phil smiles sadly. “You know why.”

And he does—he knows exactly why. It’s why he hates his own reflection. It’s why he avoids looking at his skin. It’s why he wears long-sleeves. It’s why he cannot sleep. 

His soulmates are in pain.

It’s worse having a face and a voice and a laugh and a personality to match with the ink. It’s worse—worse, _so much worse_ —that the ink is scarlet _red._ Black is bland and dull and faceless. Black takes the edge off the burden that is knowing someone the universe has paired you with is suffering. Black makes reality easier to ignore, easier to disregard.

But _red_.

Red makes it so, so much worse, because red encapsulates Tommy perfectly—passionate and strong and confident and full of love and anger and energy.

Red is bold and blaring and impossible to ignore, just like Tommy. 

Red is a constant, harrowing reminder.

And, until he finds Tommy again, he’ll despise the color red.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I do.”

Phil shifts, scratching the back of his neck. “While we’re on the topic—”

“We’re soulmates, too?”

Phil nods. “I—your mark is a crown.” He pulls up his left sleeve and steps forward to display a swirl of pink crowns just under his wrist. “There were more before. It’s—it’s kind of been useful, actually. I’ve used it to keep track of your healing.”

“You’ve known since the first day,” Techno accuses.

“Yeah,” Phil says meekly. “I didn’t—uh. Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands. “It would’ve made everything so much easier.”

“I dunno,” Phil says, and shrugs. “I didn’t want you to…feel obligated, I suppose. To stay, I mean. Just because of a drawing on your skin.”

Techno blinks. He doesn’t think Phil comprehends how fervently he despises being utterly alone.

“Sorry,” Phil says. He rubs a hand over his mouth. “I probably should’ve…yeah. It was selfish of me to keep it to myself. It concerns both of us, so I should’ve told you.”

“It’s all right,” Techno says. He doesn’t know why.

“I haven’t been around anyone in awhile,” Phil says. “So. Still adjusting to this whole _people_ thing, y’know.”

Techno scuffs his toe against the ground. “Me too,” he says.

“Well,” Phil says. “Maybe we can figure it out together.”

Techno lifts his eyes. Half of Phil’s mouth is quirked into a smile that he wants to return, but doesn’t. He’s never been particularly adept at basic social conventions. He’s still adjusting to this whole people thing, too.

So, even though his mind screams at him to say what he’s thinking— _Yeah, maybe. I’d like that_.—he circumvents emotions altogether and says, “Probably not. Neither of us have any experience whatsoever. It’s just—it’s highly unlikely.”

Phil laughs. “The grand return of the optimist.”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” he says flatly. 

///

“Oh. I—uh. I forgot to ask earlier.”

Techno raises an eyebrow. His pointed gait does not falter. 

“What’s my soul mark?” Phil asks. 

“Well,” Techno says, and heaves his backpack higher on his shoulder. “I don’t think you’ve been hurt since I met you, because I haven’t seen any color.”

“You’ve clearly not been looking hard,” Phil says, and pulls back his sleeve to reveal a scratch on his right forearm.

Techno thinks of the music discs still littering his body and winces. “No,” he says. “I haven’t been looking at all.”

“Go on and check, then,” Phil says. “I’m curious.”

“You’re either wings or a guitar,” Techno says. “Those are my only other marks.”

Phil grins. “Oh, hell. I _am_ wings. I guessed as much.”

“What—you have guitars, too?”

“Yeah. The four of us must be something like a family.”

_Something like a family_.

Techno blinks. There is sand in his mouth. “What?” he manages. 

“Can I see it?” Phil asks. 

He pulls up his sleeve. He ignores the red discs that peek in veiny, grasping tendrils down his shoulder, and stares at the line of little lime green wings. 

“Glad to be green,” Phil says, grinning. “I was hoping they weren’t brown. Don’t like brown much, y’know.”

“Mine are pink,” Techno says sullenly, and drops his arm back to his side. The phenomenon of soul marks isn’t as appealing when it looks like blood dripping down your shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” Phil says. “Pink’s a nice color. I like pigs.”

Techno’s jaw locks. His eyes narrow. His heart pounds in anticipation just like it always used to—hearing _pig_ shouted, yelled; standing cornered, four against one, waiting, waiting to be beaten by children far too powerful for their scrawny statures, far too young to inflict such trauma. 

When he doesn’t speak, Phil glances at him. He furrows his eyebrows. “All right there?”

“Yes,” Techno says tightly. It’s obvious Phil doesn’t believe him, so he swallows the memories and says, “I don’t know why mine are crowns.”

It works—Phil brushes off whatever suspicions he has. He returns his eyes to the hill they’re walking toward. “You’ll figure it out soon,” he says. “The universe has a way of lining that stuff up.”

“Pretty existential stuff for a Wednesday morning,” Techno says.

Phil snorts, but continues. “Wings wouldn’t have made sense to me if I’d seen them a couple years ago. They’ve only recently gained any relevance. Your crowns might be the same. They’ll make sense later, y’know?”

Phil looks at him in question, so he nods, but as soon as Phil is satisfied, he frowns. 

Crowns? What could _crowns_ possibly have to do with him?

///

They find nothing at the last three camps he and Tommy had stayed at. No footprints, no signs of a struggle, no belongings—nothing. It’s like no one had ever been there. 

It makes sense, he supposes. Rain covers trails better than any kidnapper ever could, and while it snowed at Phil’s house, it was raining at these sites. 

He doubts the rain covered anything significant, though. This is his second loop through these areas—the first he had done on his own, and, despite his pain-hazed mind, he doesn’t think he missed anything obvious, telling, or incriminating. 

He wishes he had. 

The ache grows with each day that passes. Some days it’s painful, almost, the longing in his chest. Those are the days that Phil keeps him distance—watching with sad, knowing eyes, and only engaging to ensure that he doesn’t overexert himself in training, to give him water and food and time and space, and to force him to bed at a reasonable hour. Strangely enough, those are the days that he feels closest to Phil. Phil understands what he needs, what he prefers, what he dislikes without him having to say it.

He is grateful. 

He watches in horror as the tallies on his own rock slowly, slowly pull away from Tommy’s last birthday.

///

“Your stance is off,” Phil says. Just like he had before, he steps from the shadows. 

Techno scowls. “What do you know?”

“I fight, too. Or, used to, I mean. Before I gave it up to pursue agriculture.”

Techno looks at him blankly.

“Yeah,” Phil says, wincing. He scratches the back of his neck. “Long, boring story.”

“It must be boring if you gave this—” he holds up his sword, “—up to farm.”

“As I said,” Phil says. He takes a step into the small area Techno’s been using to train. “Point is, your stance is too narrow. You’re off balance.”

Techno narrows his eyes. “Prove it,” he says. 

Phil shrugs, glancing pointedly at the extra sword lying behind Techno. “Have you got a sword for me?”

He ignores the hint. “Don’t you have one of your own?”

“Not on me. I left it at camp.”

He scowls. “Fine,” he says. He turns, grabs the sword he’d made for Tommy, and hands it to Phil. “There you go.”

Phil holds it carefully, scrutinizing the craftsmanship. After a moment, he says, “You made this, didn’t you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Techno says, readying his _perfectly wide enough_ stance.

“All right,” Phil says. He raises his own sword. “Are you sure your arm can handle it?”

Techno doesn’t answer. He attacks first, quickly, because it’s instinct—catch the opponent off guard, catch them unaware. 

But Phil is far faster than him. Indeed, as the fight progresses, he comes to see that Phil is far superior to him—not only in speed, but in talent, skill, anticipation, and intelligence. Phil is five steps ahead of him at all times. 

By the time Phil’s knocked him to the ground, his breaths are audible. The tip of Phil’s sword is at his chest, so he concedes, wiping sweat from his forehead, trying to conceal his humiliation. 

But he isn’t _truly_ humiliated. Not at all. It’s…it’s more _admiration_ , really. 

Phil is _incredible_.

“Off balance,” Phil affirms, offering his hand. “Proof enough?”

“Yeah.” Techno swallows his pride—taking the help up and bracing himself to ask, “Can you—uh. Would you consider—”

“I’d love to,” Phil says, eyes shining with mirth and exertion. “It’ll be fun. It’ll pass the time, anyway. I haven’t taught in...oh, I don’t know how long.”

Techno nods his thanks, still catching his breath.

Phil puts a hand on his shoulder. “But, as payment, you’re making dinner.”

Techno groans. “That’s _my_ line.”

“What, you’ve used it on a kid?” 

“Yeah,” Techno says, thinking of how much superior of a cook Tommy was, despite their age difference. “They’re so easy to take advantage of.”

Phil laughs. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

///

Days or weeks or months later, Phil pauses with a chicken wing half-way to his mouth. His eyebrows pinch. “Your hair is out of control,” he says.

“I don’t care,” Techno says through a mouthful of apple. 

“It’s getting long,” Phil says. 

“Astute observation,” he replies dryly.

Phil rolls his eyes. “You want me to cut it?”

He blinks and he’s taken years back. He’s holding a knife up to Tommy’s hair and warning that he’d never done this before, that Tommy would probably end up bald, and Tommy is saying that _it’s all right, I trust you, you’ve got a steady hand,_ and he’s cutting off far more than he needs to because he doesn’t want to do it again in a couple weeks, and he’s looking in a mirror minutes later and holding the same knife up to his own hair, because he doesn’t trust Tommy with it for the world, and—

“No,” Techno snaps—too harsh, too abrupt.

Phil looks at him vaguely. “All right,” he says. “You should probably take care of it, though. You’re gonna grow a strider in there if you aren’t careful.”

Techno scowls at the ground. He doesn’t close his eyes for the rest of the night—the memories are stitched into the inside of his eyelids. 

///

“What is it?” Techno whispers. 

Phil crouches down a few feet away. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I think it’s an animal.”

“Is it alive?”

“Can’t tell,” Phil says. “It’s in bad shape, either way.”

Techno shuffles so that the deer hanging around his neck sits more comfortably. It’s heavy, though, and he’s hungry, so he says, “Want to just take it with us?”

“Maybe,” Phil says. “I’d put it out of its misery, but we’ve already got plenty of food. It’ll just go to waste.”

“Leave it, then?” 

“No,” Phil says. He bends down and scoops the animal into his arms. “We’ll heal it up at camp. Then we can let it go.” 

Techno rolls his eyes, but says, “Whatever you say,” and resumes walking.

When they make it back to camp, Techno drops the deer on a log. There is blood on his hands, so he treks to the nearest river to clean it off.

He comes back to find Phil wrapping an animal’s leg in grass. He furrows his eyebrows. “Infection?”

“Probably,” Phil murmurs, concentrated. “Hard to tell. Definitely something broken.”

Techno hums, glancing at the deer. “Want me to skin this now or later?”

“Either way is fine,” Phil says. “Actually, come help me, will you? And I’ll help you with the deer later.”

“All right,” Techno says, and walks over to stand behind his shoulder. He looks down at the animal, and—

—blanches. 

“I think I’m going to skin the deer,” he says. 

“What?” Phil asks. “No. Come here. I need you to hold this for me.”

“No,” Techno says. 

“Really?”

“Yes,” he says. 

Phil scoffs. “Why not? It’ll take three seconds with two of us.”

“Then it’ll take six with one,” he says, stepping away. “Not a huge difference.”

Phil glances up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Why won’t you help?”

Techno bites the inside of his cheek.

Phil glances to the hurt piglet on the log. He frowns. He glances back up.

“You’re not a psychiatrist,” Techno reminds him. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“I’m jumping to plenty,” Phil says. 

“It’s a long story,” he says. “You won’t want to hear it.”

“Of course I do,” Phil says, gently resting the injured pig on its side, turning to face him fully. “I don’t ask because I don’t want to pry, but I want to hear everything about you. You just never tell me anything.”

Techno flushes, looking down. 

_I want to hear everything about you_. 

He wants that desire to last. He _loves_ meaning something to someone. If he doesn’t give anything, if he doesn’t budge, he’s scared the day will come when Phil’s patience runs out, when Phil doesn’t want to hear anything anymore. 

So he twists his fingers together, braces himself, and, for the first time in a long, long time, shares. “There were some kids at school,” he says, “awhile ago. A _long_ while ago. Before I—before I knew how to fight, and stuff.”

“Is that why you started training?” Phil asks softly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, kicking his toe in the dirt. “I wanted to be…anyway. They called me—” he gestures vaguely to the pig, “— _that_ , so I don’t really…I don’t—”

“Enjoy the reminder,” Phil finishes.

Techno nods, not lifting his eyes. 

After a long moment, Phil says, “Well. That makes perfect sense.”

Techno shrugs. 

“Come here,” Phil says. 

Techno looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

“Just—come here.”

Techno does. 

Phil gathers the piglet in his hands, stands, and extends it out to him.

He recoils, glaring. “What?”

“You’ve got to take care of him,” Phil says.

“What the hell? Why? You just said it made sense!”

“It does make sense,” Phil says. “But you don’t understand.”

“I understand fine,” Techno snaps. “You ignored every word I said.”

Phil shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Listen.”

Techno glares. 

“My parents were farmers, yeah? I grew up in agriculture. All three of my siblings are amazing at it. My father had us split and rotate through the seasons. We’d all plant a different one. One year, I got winter. It was the hardest in our region, so I studied all year for it. _All year_. But when winter came, not a single crop lived.”

“This is entirely irrelevant,” Techno deadpans. “Also, you must’ve been terrible.”

“I _was_. Still am. That’s the _point_. I was terrible, so I went off and started sparring. I completely disregarded my family’s wishes, and went off-world to be a sword-fighter.”

Techno blinks. “You went _off-world?”_

Phil shrugs, as if the information isn’t absolutely life-changing. “I was good. It was my strength, so I developed it. Meanwhile, farming sat stagnant. It was my weakness.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Techno asks. “If you love fighting, there’s no reason to return to agriculture.”

“That’s what I thought,” Phil says. “But I pondered it and pondered it and I realized: the only reason I was staying away was because I wasn’t any good at farming.”

“Well, yeah,” Techno says. “You were a good fighter.”

“But that’s a _horrible_ reason to avoid such a big part of my life. It was holding me back. I was afraid. Weakness and I don’t mesh well together.”

“No one meshes with weakness,” Techno says.

“Exactly,” Phil says, nodding. “That’s why I came back to this world. When you found me, I’d only been at that place a couple of months.”

“But…how? Your fields were giant.”

“I worked hard,” Phil says. He shrugs. “I had a weakness. I needed to turn it into a strength. I was planning on staying until I did.”

Techno’s eyebrows furrow. His eyes are blank, full.

After a moment, Phil holds up the piglet up again. “Now you’ve found a weakness. What are you going to do about it?”

_I had a weakness. I needed to turn it into a strength._

Techno stares at the piglet.

He decides.

///

When Phil is asleep, he stands and pads into the forest. 

Spring is ending, so flowers are abundant. It only takes moments to find peonies. He gathers a handful, picks up a rock, and grinds them into pink dye. 

He kneels beside the closest river and does not flinch away from his reflection. The careful process of untangling his hair takes more than a couple hours, but as soon as he’s finished, he cups the dye in his hands. 

“Goodbye weakness,” he murmurs to his reflection, and scrubs the dye into his scalp.

///

Phil doesn’t even blink. “I like it,” he says.

“Of course you do,” Techno says, rolling his eyes. 

“Not the color,” Phil says. Techno looks up in alarm, but Phil hurries to rephrase, “Well, I like the color, but that’s not what I was talking about. I like the braid.”

“Oh,” Techno says. “It was too long. I couldn’t leave it down.”

Phil smiles. “It’s a good look,” he says. 

Techno cares for the piglet every day for the next three weeks. He carries it in his arms when they move camps, when they eat, when they search for clues—always. 

When it’s recovered, he bends down, sets it on the sprouting ground, and lets it scamper off. 

Phil puts a hand on his shoulder. He leans into it. 

///

“Let’s go again,” Techno says, taking Phil’s outstretched hand.

Phil raises an eyebrow. “How’s the arm?”

“Fine, fine,” he says impatiently. He crouches into his stance. “Come on.”

Phil smiles, raising his sword, but pauses. He lowers the sword slightly. 

Techno frowns, dropping his stance. “What is it?”

“I just realized that I’ve—I’m still calling you _guest_. In my head, I mean.”

Techno blinks.

“I don’t know your name,” Phil says. 

“I— _what?_ It’s been _months_.”

Phil laughs, incredulous. “It just never came up, I guess. I completely forgot to wonder.”

“That’s so _weird_ ,” Techno says. 

“What is it, then?” Phil asks, still chuckling. 

“It’s Techno. I’m—I’m Techno.”

Phil grins. He holds out his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Techno.”

“This is so weird,” Techno repeats, staring at the hand. “Too weird. I’m not taking that.”

“Fine,” Phil says, laughing. He raises his sword again. “You’ll regret it.”

“We’ll see,” Techno says. He steps into his stance. 

Phil destroys him. 

But he reaches out a hand and helps him up, like he always does, and they replay every step of the spar that they can remember—covering every misstep and mistake—together.

Techno loves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Techno has another friend, yay! He might have even MORE, too...we meet someone new next chapter! :D
> 
> If you have a second, I'd love to hear what you thought!! Either way, thanks so much for reading! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your amazing feedback last chapter! You guys are the absolute best! 
> 
> Sorry for the wait--busy time of year. This is a much longer chapter than usual, though, so hopefully that makes up for it! 
> 
> Couple quick notes: A) I outlined this story before I found out about the twins theory, so in this universe, Wilbur is 3 years older than Techno--just like irl. B) The chapter count keeps fluctuating, so I just moved it to "?". My initial estimates were way off, and I'm not completely sure how long it'll be since I tend to underestimate my verbosity, hahah.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy! :D

_fifteen years old_

“There’s nothing here,” Techno mutters. 

Phil puts a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find him,” he says. 

Techno turns his back on the campsite they’d just searched. His shoulders slump. He bows his head, rubs his forehead. He sighs. 

The sun sets. 

///

His frustration builds. He knows why. Their searches have been futile, yes, but also…he knows what’s coming. 

He stares at the rocks in his hands.

///

“New technique,” Phil says, and extends his sword out for Techno to take.

Techno furrows his eyebrows. “You’re going to fight without a sword?” 

“No,” Phil says. “You’re going to fight with two.”

Techno blinks. 

He doesn’t take the sword, so Phil pushes it into his hand. “You won’t get it right away," Phil says. "It’s completely different than just one. Much more difficult to learn well.”

“Why bother, then?” Techno asks. “I’m good enough with one.”

Phil raises a pointed eyebrow.

Techno rolls his eyes. “Weakness,” he mutters. He lifts the swords.

Phil smiles.

///

His eyes are dry from staring at the ground. The fire burns his shins. He doesn’t care—he will not break his vigil. 

He doesn’t pray, because he never learned how, but he stares and he burns and he ignores the new music discs on his skin. 

When Phil wakes with the sun, Techno does not move. 

“All right, there?” Phil asks, stretching. 

He does not respond. 

Phil glances at him, confused. Still, he does not move. Still, he does not speak.

He sits all day. He does not eat or drink or move or speak or think or remember. He sits, and he does not cry, because his eyes are too dry to produce water. He is glad.

When midnight comes, he picks up the rock on his knee. He makes a careful tally. 

With the tip of his sword, he circles the tally. Above it, in rough, shaky, script, he writes the number _10_.

He bows his head. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

He clutches the rock to his chest.

///

In the morning, they’re packing up camp when Phil pauses. He turns to Techno, eyebrows pinched, mouth opening and closing like it can’t decide what it wants to say, if it wants to say anything at all.

It’s okay. Techno knew this was coming. He’s been selfish to keep the information to himself. Phil deserves to know.

“His name is Tommy,” he murmurs, stuffing a book into his rucksack. “He turned 10 yesterday.”

Phil’s eyes widen. “He’s the discs?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re everywhere,” Phil says. “All over my skin.”

Techno flinches. “I know,” he says quietly. “I found him a couple years ago. He’d run away from someone who had—uh. Who had taken him.”

“Kidnapped?” Phil echoes. 

“Yeah,” Techno says. He removes the books to make room for his blanket. He doesn’t meet Phil’s eyes. “I’d bet everything the same man took him again.”

“He doesn’t treat him very well,” Phil says softly. 

Techno purses his lips. “I’ll pay him back in kind,” he mutters. “When we find him, I…”

“Me too,” Phil says. “I don’t even know Tommy, but to treat someone like that is…well. The man deserves what’s coming for him.”

_Hell_ , Techno thinks.

Hell is on its way.

///

Months and months pass. They search every campsite, every place he and Tommy had set foot. Covering all their bases, excluding every possibility.

They find nothing. 

///

_sixteen years old_

“Wow,” Phil murmurs. “It’s so different than I remember.”

“Of course it is,” Techno mutters, craning his neck to look down the walls. Soldiers cover every inch of ground as far as he can see. “It’s been years.”

“It’s expanded so much,” Phil says. “There’s a new king, too, isn’t there?”

“New is relative,” Techno says. He straightens, tucks his sword away. “He took power when I was still here, so…seven, eight years ago? Maybe nine, I don’t know.”

Phil smiles a little. “Not a fan of politics?”

“Not a fan of government,” Techno says. “Or the SMP at large.”

“Not a fan of your home nation?” Phil asks, eyebrows raised. 

Techno shrugs off his incredulity. “Look at all it’s done for me.”

“Do you not like the monarchy? There’re democracies off-world, y’know.”

“Wouldn’t change anything,” Techno says. “It’s always one group controlling another. I don’t want to be part of either.”

Phil watches him for a moment. He nods. “Fair enough.”

“You disagree,” Techno accuses.

“Maybe,” Phil says, smiling. “But that’s all right.”

///

“That was way easier than I expected,” Techno mutters. 

“I think you’re underestimating yourself,” Phil says. 

Techno sighs. “My hamartia.”

Phil laughs sharply. 

“Really, though,” Techno says. “I don’t know why they don’t switch up the soldier’s rotations. All anyone has to do is memorize their schedules.”

“And slip through the walls,” Phil says. 

“That’s all we did,” Techno says. 

“We did it well, to be fair.”

“It was still much easier than it should have been.”

“Either way, we’re here now,” Phil says. He readjusts his grip on his backpack. “Where are we headed first?”

“Right to the middle,” Techno says, remembering. 

_Right in the middle_.

///

“This is—are you sure this is what you’re looking for?” Phil asks, laughing a little incredulously.

Techno frowns.

“It’s the Palace,” Phil says. 

“Is it really?” Techno asks dryly. “I had no idea.”

“You can’t be serious,” Phil says. “He said the man took him _here?”_

“No,” Techno says. “He said the man took him _right in the middle_ of the SMP. Which is…well.” He scratches the back of his neck and gestures vaguely at the castle in front of them. “Here.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Phil says. “There’s no way he’s here.”

“It’d be a stretch.”

“To say the least,” Phil says. He snorts. “Even if the king could get away with it, he’d have no use or incentive. It makes no sense for him to have taken him.”

Techno flushes. “Obviously not the king,” he says. “Maybe an adviser? Or a knight, or something?”

“And if it is?” Phil asks, raising his eyebrows. “How are you planning to get him out of the _Palace?”_

Techno glances at the castle, lips pursed in early stages of thought.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Phil says. “There’s zero chance he’s here.”

“It _would_ be ridiculous,” Techno says. “But I…we need to cover all our bases.”

Phil stares at him. “You don’t mean—you want to break into the _Palace?”_

“Yes.”

Phil grins. “All right,” he says. 

Techno blinks.

///

“Okay, you’re right,” Phil says. “Security here is awful.”

Techno smiles. 

It’s ridiculously easy to disguise as servants, duck past the guards, slip through the hallways, and find the entire castle at their disposal. The king obviously isn’t concerned about his protection.

It’s harder, though, to search every inch of the giant castle. It takes two days and a night—which they spend in the crowded servant’s quarters. Under the pretense of delivering food, they check the rooms of the Lords and the Advisers and the Knights and the Secretaries and the diplomats and the generals and the ambassadors and—

They check everywhere. 

They find nothing.

///

“It was a stretch, anyway,” Phil consoles as they slump through the streets. They keep their heads down. “We knew it was. It makes no sense for someone living in the castle to kidnap a six year old child.”

“He’s ten,” Techno responds automatically.

Phil glances at him from the corner of his eye. There’s something like sympathy in his gaze.

Techno ducks away from the attention and frowns at blood dripping down his right wrist. He shifts his sleeve to conceal it. He sighs. “I know,” he says, but thinks _Right in the middle_.

He doesn’t understand. 

Other buildings might qualify as _near_ the middle—Prime Church, the White House, the Podium—but nothing is as explicit as the castle. They check those places just in case. They don’t find anything.

It doesn’t make sense.

///

“Here,” Phil says, handing him a foil package.

There’s a scuffing sound a few yards to their left, so Techno glances at it before sitting down. An overflowing dumpster presses against the wall, seeming on the verge of tipping over. The scene is still and silent, and Techno begins to think that the noise was a fluke, but the crown of a head peeks over the side of the dumpster. Techno tenses at first—ready to attack, ready to defend—but, after a short moment of scrutiny, the boy across him dips back behind the dumpster. 

He’s harmless, for now, so Techno sinks down onto the crate next to Phil and takes the foil. As he unfolds it, his eyes light up. “Potatoes are my favorite,” he says.

“I know,” Phil chuckles. “I’ve noticed.”

Techno glances at him, smiling. “Where’d you find it?”

Phil opens his own package. “In the market.”

“How’d you pay for it?”

Phil starts whistling. 

Techno huffs a laugh.

They eat in quiet tranquility, listening to the echoes of the nation’s conversation beyond their little alleyway and watching the streetlight’s shadows shift with the stars. It isn’t quite strained, the silence, but it isn’t still, either—the burden of the tasks lying before them sits heavy on their shoulders. 

Tommy isn’t _Right in the middle_. It’s impossible—they scoured every inch of the SMP’s center. He isn’t in the castle or in Prime Church or in the White House. 

He won’t stop looking. Of course he won’t. But something like doubt—something like hopelessness—begins to creep in.

It’s been more than a year. A _year_.

The weight on his face must be obvious, because Phil watches him for a long moment before clearing his throat and saying, “I want a tractor.”

Techno blinks.

“I’m serious,” Phil says.

Just like that, the heavy thoughts squish into the back of his mind. He releases the laughter he’s held in for ages. “A tractor?”

“Yes,” Phil says, smiling a little—knowing, always, how to save him from himself. “I saw one yesterday. It seemed pretty ergonomic.”

“It’d be quite the heist,” Techno says. “Tractors are huge.”

“Oh, no,” Phil says, snorting. “There’s no way we could steal one. They’re way too loud.”

“How much are they?”

“To buy?”

“Yeah.”

Phil shrugs. “Far out of our price range.”

“Like…a couple months of savings?”

“Like fourteen decades of savings.”

Techno laughs. “Have fun with that. I’ll be long dead.”

“If anyone were to live forever,” Phil says through a bite of potato, “it would be you.”

“On what basis?” Techno asks dryly. “Will to live?”

“Oh, shove it,” Phil says. “It was a compliment.”

“It’s my nightmare,” Techno says. 

Phil laughs. 

“I’ve thought about this, actually,” Techno says, sobering. He pokes through his food. “You could use another hand.”

“A third hand?” Phil asks. “Or an actual person?”

Techno rolls his eyes. “A person. The animals and the fields and the repairs…that’s a lot of work for one. Help would make everything a lot simpler.”

Phil grins. “Are you offering?”

“I’m not working for anyone,” Techno says. “I told you—I don’t want anyone to control me.” He takes another bite and says, “Besides, I’d kill everything I touch.”

“Except potatoes,” Phil says, gesturing to the foil.

“True,” he says. “I’d protect them with my life.”

Phil is quiet for a moment—smiling, pondering—and Techno thinks the discussion is over. He already supplied his advice, so he isn’t bothered, but Phil looks up, furrows his eyebrows, and says, “That’s a good idea. Would you be all right with a third in the house?”

The question cuts deep into his heart. Phil asks like they’ll live there forever, like he doesn’t want Techno to leave. 

A flush creeps into his face. He clears his throat. “It’ll be a fourth, once we find Tommy.”

“A fourth, then.”

“Yeah,” Techno says. He smiles at the potatoes in his hands. “Yeah. I think that’d be nice.”

///

Later that night, Phil frowns at his left wrist.

The moon is dim, so Techno shifts the map of the SMP around in his hands—trying to fit it under the streetlight—and doesn’t notice.

“Techno,” Phil says tightly.

Techno grunts his acknowledgment.

“What is this?”

“What is what?” Techno asks, squinting, not looking up.

Phil pushes his wrist over the map, obscuring Techno’s view. 

Techno stares at the pink crowns on Phil’s skin. The pain in his wrist flares like it knows it’s the center of attention. The pink darkens.

“Yeah, uh,” Techno says smoothly. “Not sure.”

“Uh huh,” Phil says. There’s an edge to his voice that Techno hasn’t heard before. It puts him on edge. “Want to try that again?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Techno still holds the map, so it’s easy for Phil to push his sleeve up and expose the cut. 

_“Techno!”_ Phil whisper-shouts, staring. 

He scowls. “It’s fine,” he mutters, sliding his sleeve back down and pulling his arm away. He turns so that he faces the dumpster, so that his back is toward Phil. “It’s not a big deal.”

“There’s blood everywhere! When did you—how—what did—”

“Phil,” he says shortly. “It’s fine.”

“We have very different definitions of _fine_ , Techno. Did you cut it?” 

Techno winces, thinking of the sharp spear in Lord Grylin’s room—how it clattered to the floor, how it sliced through his skin, how no amount of pressure kept it from gushing blood.

“Techno,” Phil warns. 

“Yes,” he snaps. “But it’s not a big—”

Phil stands abruptly.

“What are you doing?” Techno hisses, spinning to face him. 

Phil bends down to grab his backpack. “I’m not dealing with another infection,” he says plainly, and swings it onto his shoulders.

Techno stands, irritated. “It isn't the arm that I broke,” he says. “There’s no chance that it’ll—”

“It’s a deep cut, Techno,” Phil says. “I’m going to clean it.”

“But it isn’t infected!”

“ _Techno_ ,” Phil snaps, turning toward him, eyes flashing. 

Techno glares. 

Phil sighs, shoulders slumping. “Sorry,” he mutters. He rubs a hand over his forehead. “I just…these are things I want to know, y’know? I want you to tell me this stuff.”

“So you can lecture me on first aid?” Techno retorts. 

“No,” Phil says. “So I can take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Techno says sharply. “I always have.”

“I know,” Phil says. His voice is soft. “I know you have. But I—I’m here now, y’know? You aren’t alone anymore. And I _want_ to help. Just—please trust me.”

_You aren’t alone anymore_.

He wants to say something scathing, dry, sardonic like he usually does. Because he doesn’t need anyone’s help. He doesn’t need anyone’s care. 

But… _trust_. 

It’s such a foreign concept to him. He doesn’t know that he’s ever _trusted_ anyone. He loved—loves, still—Tommy, but he never trusted him with his past, or with his emotions, or with his hurt, or with his experience. He gave Tommy superficial things—knowledge, guidance, help, teaching.

He remembers _wanting_ , so badly, to tell Tommy everything about his past. He remembers, too, something stopping him from making the jump—something like doubt, something like fear. 

He made the mistake of not trusting Tommy even though he wanted to. He wants to trust Phil, now.

He does not want to make the same mistake. 

_Please trust me_.

He opens his mouth to acquiesce, when, behind them, something crashes to the ground.

He draws his sword as he whirls around, but all he finds is the same boy from earlier. He stands wide-eyed beside the now overturned dumpster, holding a trashed guitar by the neck in one hand and a half-eaten chicken leg in the other.

After concluding that he won’t be attacked, the boy takes a bite of his chicken leg. “Sorry,” he says, sounding anything but. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Techno looks at him strangely. 

“Well, don’t stop on my account,” the boy says after a couple of seconds. Despite the shadows, he looks a few years older than Techno—taller, lankier, bone-thin. “It sounded like a real heartfelt conversation.”

Techno narrows his eyes.

An awkward moment passes, but the boy seems at ease, like he’s been in this situation a million times. 

Phil clears his throat. “Thanks,” he says. “Have a good night.”

“You as well, of course,” the boy says. 

“Come on, Tech,” Phil says, and turns to walk away. “We need to clean it.”

Techno tears his eyes away from the boy. As he follows Phil out of the alleyway, though, he glances behind him.

The boy is gone.

///

“We’re out,” Techno says, digging through the bottom of his backpack.

“I thought we had a few coins left?”

“There’s nothing here,” Techno says. 

Phil sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Market’s not an option, then,” he mutters. “They’ll recognize me from earlier.”

The streets are relatively crowded for a weekday night. There must be an event going on, or something, because swarms of people duck into an alley up the street and on the left. One of the alleys up there leads to the Podium, so it isn’t too extraordinary. Either way, it makes it easier to blend in, so they don’t complain.

“What do we need, anyway?” Techno asks. 

“Only alcohol, really. To clean it. Everything else.”

“Oh well,” Techno says flatly. “We tried.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “I’ll find a pub,” he says. “There’s bound to be one somewhere.”

Techno blanches. Before he can force himself to ask the question he wants to, though, Phil glances at him and hurries to say, “I don’t drink. I don’t—alcohol isn’t for me.”

Techno isn’t sure if he’s lying or not, but the weight of a thousand horrible memories—smell and sight and volume and vomit—slips off of his shoulders. He nods mutely, grateful that Phil knows, like always.

They find one in mere seconds—up the street and to the right, across the way from the alleyway attracting all the people. Techno glances at it curiously, but follows Phil to the pub’s front door.

“They won’t let me in,” Techno says. 

“It’s worth a try,” Phil says. 

“Is it?” he mutters. “I’ll just wait out here.”

Phil glances at him. “Sure?”

“Yeah,” he says. 

“I won’t be long,” Phil says, even though it looks ridiculously crowded inside. 

Techno nods. Phil slips inside. 

Without hesitation, Techno turns to determine the attraction behind him. He crosses the murky street and finds that it isn’t an alleyway, but a staircase descending into a tunnel. He bites his lip, glances behind him, and gets shoved down the stairs by someone rushing past. 

He scowls, turning to find the offender, but they’ve long disappeared into the hoard of people. Frowning, he follows. 

The staircase is dank, but short, and he peers into the tunnel as soon as he’s reached the bottom. Above everyone’s heads he can just make out an indigo door propped halfway open. Echoes of shouts and cheers pour from inside. 

He furrows his eyebrows and continues forward. He slips inside with a group of men excitedly discussing bets and wins and losses. 

He doesn’t understand until he looks around. 

It’s a fight club. It’s sketchy, illegal, and underground, but it’s most certainly organized—employees run around serving food and drink, collecting bets, sweeping bile and beer and blacked-out men off the floor. On the wall are brackets of fighters’ names, pictures of past champions, and…multiple paintings of bronze horns. Some are twisted, some are polished.

Techno furrows his eyebrows and doesn’t understand their relevance, but an announcer yells, “Fight!” and he turns to find that he’s just in time to see the beginning. 

The rules seem fairly loose, for one man fights with a sword, and the other with a pair of bronze knuckles. Techno watches in wide-eyed awe as they spin around an elevated ring, as the audience cheers them on, as bookmakers scramble around taking bets. 

Tommy’s spontaneous compliments come back to him in sharp clarity:

_You’re like a professional. I bet you could make money off of fighting. You’re probably the best in the world_. 

He turns away a few moments later, because he knows he cannot stay long. 

He memorizes the address as he leaves.

He emerges at nearly the same time as Phil, so he scrambles across the street before Phil can notice him missing. He stops just as Phil looks up. 

“Got it?” Techno asks. 

Phil holds up a bottle.

“What now?” Techno asks. 

Phil twists his lips to one side. “We should probably go back to camp,” he mutters. “Fix your arm, take a minute. Regroup, and all that. We’ve been here for…what, a fortnight, now?”

“Thirteen days.”

“Yeah,” Phil says. “Let’s go back."

Techno nods. 

///

The third time he checks his shoulder, he _knows_ he sees something. 

He shuffles close to Phil’s side. “Someone’s following us,” he murmurs.

Phil turns to him, looking entirely unsurprised. “I don’t think it’s an issue.”

“You sure?” Techno asks, raising an eyebrow, checking again. 

“Yeah,” Phil says, smiling like he knows something Techno doesn’t. “It’s all right.”

///

“This camp good?” Phil asks after they’ve traveled for two hours. 

“Sure,” Techno says. “The next is better, but we won’t reach the it by nightfall.”

“Perfect,” Phil says, dropping his backpack onto the ground. he gestures to a log. “Sit down there. It’ll sting, but you’ve been through worse.”

“Comforting,” Techno says dryly. 

///

Night falls. 

Phil is asleep within minutes. 

Techno stands, grabs his sword, and runs the steps they’d just walked.

///

Thirty minutes later, he’s snuck his way back through the wall. 

He steals plastic from the market and crafts a makeshift mask. It’s vapid, though, so he slips back inside and takes some pink paint, too.

To his great relief, he finds the crowd present again. He’s given weightier looks, now, because of the sword in his hand, but he ignores them. He follows the hoards down the stairs, in the tunnel, through the open indigo door, and into the club.

It takes a few people to point him toward a man holding a clipboard, leaning against a wall, vaguely watching the fight in front of him. He takes a deep breath, straightens his posture, and approaches him. 

“I’m here to fight,” he says. 

The man turns to him and blinks. “What?”

“I’m here to fight,” he repeats. 

The man stares. The man barks a laugh.

Techno doesn’t scowl even though he wants to. He knows how he must play this—mature, aloof, superior. He won’t give them what they’re expecting.

“I’m here to fight,” he says again.

“You’re a _child_ ,” the man says.

“I’m 18,” he lies.

The man raises an eyebrow. “You in the registry?”

“Yes,” he says easily, without the faintest idea of what the _registry_ is. “You’re wasting time if you check.”

“You have a name to fight under?”

“I’ve got my own,” Techno says. 

The man shakes his head. “Don’t recommend it. Wouldn’t want any vengeful fighters after you.”

Techno bites the inside of his cheek. He scrambles to think of something—anything—to call himself, to fight under, but he doesn’t know the basis because he hasn’t heard any of the other fighters’ names. He looks around the room, searching, searching for something meaningful, for something significant, but—

The man raises an impatient eyebrow.

Techno grips his sword tighter, and—

He looks down to his hand. 

The sword is different, now—tainted with time and use and wear—but it is exactly the same. Even now, all these years later, he remembers glimpsing its glint from across the room, remembers waiting an entire month to finally discover it under piles of paper and trash and useless, hoarded collections. He remembers holding it for the first time, slumped in relief against the inside of his bedroom door. He remembers the solidity of the hilt in his grasp.

More than anything, though, he remembers the blade. 

Silver and sparkling in the cold light. Cool to the touch. Beautiful. Ethereal.

The first thing in his life that was _his_. The first thing in his life that he trusted, that he loved. The first constant in his life—reliable, present, unfailing.

He grips his the hilt tighter. “Yes,” he says, looking up. “Yes, I do.”

The man considers him for a long moment. “We aren’t responsible for your health,” he says at length. “If you get hurt, we’re not going to take care of you.”

“Didn’t expect anything less,” Techno says dryly.

The man shrugs. “All right, then.” He points beside the center ring, to a man with dark sunglasses propped on his head. “On you go.”

As Techno is turning toward the ring, the man laughs again. “Nice costume, by the way,” he says harshly. “ _Pig_.”

Beneath his mask, Techno grins.

_Strength_ , he thinks.

///

He wins.

He wins and he wins and he wins and he wins, until dawn peeks through the windows and the owner’s assistant shoos everyone away. 

He’s leaving, too, when the man from before stops him and pushes a sack of coins into his hands. 

“Nice fighting, Blade,” the man says. “Boss’ll be pleased with the new blood I recruited.”

“And you’ll, what—get a promotion?”

“Maybe,” the man says, and grins. “Expect to see you ‘round here pretty consistently. Money goes up over time, and when you fight someone real famous. That fight won’t be spontaneous—we’ll announce it a couple of days in advance, bring in the extra crowds…all that jazz. You’ll get bankloads for that.”

“Bankloads?” Techno echoes dryly. 

“You know what I mean,” the man says. He gestures to Techno’s arm. “Anyway, might want to clean that up. Have a good night.”

Techno intentionally avoids looking at his arm. Fighting exacerbated—and reopened—the slash, and even thinking about it makes him light-headed.

Instead, he glances to the money.

He wonders if the market is open this late.

///

Exhaustion and pain make his return-trip much, much slower than even his and Phil’s trip was. His vision is blurry with his arm’s violent throbbing. 

He does not reach camp until the sun is peaking in the sky.

When he does, he hears Phil talking. It isn’t so surprising—Phil often talks to himself. He stumbles the final steps to the camp, cradles his arm at his chest, and glances up.

He freezes. 

Phil cuts himself off as soon as he sees him. He turns to face him fully, raising an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “There you are,” he says mildly. “Run into a Wither, did we?”

But Techno doesn’t pay him any attention, because Phil _hadn’t_ been talking to himself, after all. 

He’d been talking to a boy.

In the sunshine, he looks at least a couple of years older than Techno. He’s tall, lanky, and bone-thin. He holds a sheet of paper in one hand. 

He holds a guitar by its neck in the other. 

“I knew someone followed us,” Techno says. 

The boy flushes, drops his eyes to the floor, and ducks his head so that only the top of his beanie is visible. 

“Where were you, then?” Phil asks. 

“Who’s this?” Techno retorts. 

“He’s our fourth,” Phil says. He glances to the boy. “Go on, then.”

The boy looks up shyly. “Hi,” he says. He flicks his hand in a choppy, stilted wave. “I’m Wilbur.”

Techno blinks.

“And this is Techno,” Phil supplies at his silence. “He’s not one for social niceties.”

The boy—Wilbur—smiles.

“You heard us talking,” Techno accuses. “So you...what? Followed us?”

Wilbur shrugs. “I can work.”

“You _can_ work? Or you _need_ work? Because there’s a difference, and—”

“Techno,” Phil warns.

“Sorry,” Techno says, scratching the back of his neck with his unhurt hand. “I—sorry. I’m just confused.”

“It’s all right,” Wilbur says. “Both. I can work, and I…” 

He trails off—flushing more, dropping his eyes again—and this time, Techno understands. He understands, too, why Wilbur is acting different tonight than he had when they’d run into him before. 

Wilbur followed them for hours to ask for _work_. Techno doesn’t think he would ever, ever do that, because if that isn’t desperation at its finest, if that isn’t an admittance of failure, if that isn’t the greatest insult to someone’s sense of pride…

Well. It _is_.

It is also admirable. 

“Can you play?” Techno blurts. 

Wilbur blinks. “What?”

“The—can you play? The guitar.”

“Oh,” Wilbur says, glancing down. “Oh, sure. Yes, I mean. Yeah. I can.”

“Well?”

“Oh. I can play right now, I guess—”

“No, no,” Techno says, flushing, too. “I meant can you play _it_ well. Like, are you any good?”

“Oh,” Wilbur says again. He twists his fingers together. “Good is relative, I suppose. I’m decent. I play a lot. But I won’t—don’t worry. I won’t play while I’m here, so—”

“It’s all right,” Techno says quickly. “You can play. I like—uh. I like music. I haven’t heard it in a long time.”

“Okay,” Wilbur says, nodding. “Okay, sure. I’ll play sometime.”

“Thanks,” Techno says. He drops his eyes. After a brief silence, he looks up to add, “I’m Techno, by the way.”

“I know,” Wilbur says. “Phil told me.”

“Right,” Techno mutters. He clears his throat. “Right.”

He glances at Phil, hoping to find conversation starters on his countenance. 

Instead, he sees something like pride. Phil’s smile is soft, and his eyes are softer. 

Techno doesn’t understand. Not thirty seconds ago, Phil had said he lacked propriety, and now he’s—now he’s _proud?_ All Techno had done was what he’d hoped someone would have done to him in the same situation—transition away from humiliating topics. 

He had also _brought up_ said humiliating topic. 

Phil’s expression changes when his eyes find Techno’s arm, though. He narrows his eyes again. “Was this spontaneous?” he asks. “Or meticulously planned?”

“I’m never spontaneous,” Techno says. 

“Then how’s the other guy?” Phil asks. 

“Alas," Techno says flatly. "The most cliche question in the book."

“Please tell me he’s at least alive?”

Techno rolls his eyes. “They’re all alive.”

“ _All?”_ Phil asks, moving to grab what little alcohol remains from his backpack. “How many?”

“Irrelevant,” Techno mutters. He limps toward Phil. “Here. I picked up these at the market. Figured they’d help.”

Phil turns, considers the proffered bandages with a raised eyebrow, and says, “ _Picked_ them up?”

“Oh,” Techno says. “I got—uh.” He pulls the sack of coins from his pocket and plops it into Phil’s hand. “This.”

“This,” Phil repeats dumbly.

“Found it in the gutter,” Techno says. 

“Did you, now?”

Techno hums and sinks onto the log.

Phil sets the sack aside. He looks at Techno seriously—raised eyebrows, imploring eyes. “I know what you think about control,” he says, “so I won’t push you to tell me when you’re leaving. But you come back to me in one piece, understand? Every time you go out.”

Techno smiles. 

“I’m serious, Tech,” Phil says. “There’ll be hell to pay if you don’t.”

“Who’ll pay it?” Techno asks, grinning. A wave of dizziness hits him. He cannot blink it away. “Me or the other guy?”

“Wilbur first, probably,” Phil says, glancing to Wilbur. “Since he’ll be around to face my wrath.”

“Don’t worry,” Techno says to Wilbur. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

"That's a relief," Wilbur says.

“No, _that’s_ a cliche,” Phil says. “I’m disappointed in you, Tech.”

“I’m admittedly distracted at the moment,” Techno says tightly. “What with the whole injury thing. Among other things, it's guiding me straight for unconsciousness, making my one-liners worse, etc.”

“Hey, Wilbur? Grab me that bottle, will you?” Phil asks, gesturing vaguely behind him. “And then come over here and help me secure this wrapping. Sometimes it’s hard to keep in place.”

Techno closes his eyes.

“This one?” Wilbur says. 

“Perfect,” Phil says. “There’s one more in my backpack, too, if you could grab that one.” To Techno, he says, “It’ll only burn a little, yeah? Same process as before.”

“Hey, Phil?” Techno whispers. 

“Yes?”

“The—the things on our skin. The fourth marks. They’re guitars, aren’t they?”

Phil doesn’t speak, but Techno doesn’t mind. He already knows the answer.

He blinks his eyes open. “Are they still black?” he asks. 

Phil smiles. “I don’t believe they are.”

He closes his eyes again. He already knew that answer, too.

They’ve found their fourth.

Now they just need to find their third.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they will find him soon--I promise! (Finally!) :D
> 
> The length of this got away from me, but I really hope you liked it. If you feel so inclined, let me know what you thought! Every single comment makes me SO happy. Either way, though, thank you so much for reading! Hope your holidays were / are happy!! <33


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much!!!!! You're all amazing, and your support means everything!!!!
> 
> This is also a longer chapter, oops. The next one will be too, I think, but we'll see. 
> 
> Couple things--every mention of love in this entire fic is strictly platonic. I'm sure you all know that, but I figured I'd say it again it just to make sure. Also, I'd originally chosen a different color for Wilbur's soul mark, but after how iconic "blue" has become, I had to choose blue. :D
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone! Hope you enjoy this chapter! <3

“I think I scared him off,” Techno says, watching as Wilbur’s silhouette strolls deeper into the night. “Does blood make him queasy?”

Phil snorts. “It’s not that,” he says. “I’m not sure what it is, actually, but it’s all right. He’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“So, he’s—what? Camping nights a mile away from us? Or is he commuting to the SMP and back?”

“I don’t know,” Phil says. “But I strongly doubt it’s the latter.”

Techno crosses his arms, staring at the shadow of the guitar clutched in Wilbur’s hand. “He should just stay.”

“He’ll stay when he’s ready,” Phil says.

“He’s _working_ for you, though. His leaving makes it harder for all of us.”

Phil, as always, sees right through him. “Don’t take it personal, Techno.”

“I’m not,” Techno lies immediately. “I don’t care.”

“All right,” Phil says. “Good. I imagine he’s rather overwhelmed, after all. It’s not so insane that he doesn’t trust us. He’s hardly met us.”

“So he’s soft.”

“Not necessarily. Think about it from his perspective. For all he knows, we could be serial killers.”

“Who’s gonna tell him?” Techno deadpans.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Phil says, exasperated. “You might actually scare him off.”

Techno turns to face him, smiling faintly. He lifts his hand to tick their sins off on his fingers. “Thievery, breaking and entering—to a country _and_ a castle—premeditated murder—”

Phil’s looks up sharply. “Excuse me?” 

Techno raises his eyebrows. 

Phil scrunches his forehead, dropping the knife he’s been whetting and standing from his crouch. “What did you—premeditated murder?”

“Hasn’t happened yet,” Techno says, shrugging. “But it’s bound to happen soon.”

Phil slumps in relief. “For a moment, I thought you’d already killed someone.”

“And if I had?”

“I’d feel incredibly irresponsible.”

Techno purses his lips to contain his laughter. “That’s a lot less concern than I’d anticipated, to be honest.”

“Well,” Phil says. “It’s inevitable, isn’t it?”

“Me murdering people?”

“No, because I wouldn’t approve of that at all. I give you permission to kill one person, and one person only.”

Techno scrunches his forehead.

“One _specific_ person,” Phil clarifies.

Techno understands. All levity is sucked out of the atmosphere.

Techno’s jaw locks. He half-turns away, glaring at the ground. “I don’t need anyone’s permission for that,” he says darkly. “All I need is a chance.”

The silence is heavy.

Phil clears his throat. “On second thought, whenever Wilbur’s around, we’re recently converted disciples of Prime Church.”

He’s trying to lighten the mood, Techno knows. Still, he scowls. “I don’t care what he thinks of me.”

“I know,” Phil says. “But he’s our soulmate, and I really _don’t_ want to scare him off.”

Techno spins toward him, eyes flashing. “When I find the man that took Tommy, I will not _hesitate_ to kill him _._ I don’t care if Wilbur is standing right next to me, watching me do it, Phil. I’m going to kill whoever took him.”

“I know,” Phil says, undeterred. “I would never ask you to hesitate. Just—try to get to know Wilbur. Please?”

Techno’s passion flickers out as he stares at Phil. He bows his head, slumps his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, of course. I don’t—I don’t have anything against him. I’m just…”

Phil steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder. “I know,” he says quietly. 

_I’m messed up_ , Techno wants to tell him. _I want to do terrible things to the man who took him. It—it scares me, because it_ doesn’t _scare me. It’s not normal._

Phil squeezes his shoulder. “You’re all right,” he says. 

_If you only knew,_ Techno thinks.

///

They aren’t _home-_ home, yet, and they won’t be for awhile. Phil explains this to Wilbur, but Wilbur doesn’t mind. He arrives with the sunrise and departs with the sunset. He helps them when he can and provides quiet company when he can’t. He doesn’t _work_ , really—not more than either of them, at least—but Phil pays him anyway.

They divide Techno’s map of the SMP into hundreds of little sections and cross them off as they search. Techno wonders absently if Wilbur’s guessed what—or, rather, _who_ —they’re looking for, but he never asks, so Techno doesn’t tell him. 

Indeed, they never even bring up the fact they’re soulmates. Techno catches Wilbur looking at his marks, sometimes—the pink crowns, the green wings, the black discs. More often, though, Techno catches Wilbur furrowing his eyebrows at _his_ marks—Techno’s—the blue guitars, the green wings, the red discs. When Wilbur looks at the discs, Techno can see the desperate questions in his eyes—the visceral need to know, to understand what happened to someone who he’s supposed to love, who the universe has pinned him with forever—but he never asks, so Techno doesn’t tell him.

It’s an unspoken thing, and he prefers it as such. He isn’t ready to dive into their respective histories. Wilbur, for his part, carries his past on his shoulders—his posture is stiff and coiled, like at any given moment he’ll pop, explode, escape—but Techno never asks, so Wilbur doesn’t tell him.

Techno _does_ tell Phil about the fight club, but the glimmer in Phil’s eyes tells him that Phil had long known. They start training— _hard_. With one sword and with two.

“There’s a lot of money to be made,” Techno tells him one day.

Phil glances up from the map he’d been examining. “In fighting?”

“Yeah,” Techno says. 

“You’re certainly better than anyone they could find,” Phil says. 

Techno flushes with the praise. “I think I’m going to go back. Tonight.”

Phil looks at him flatly. “Your cut hasn’t closed all the way.”

“But the stitches are out, and it doesn’t hurt.”

Phil purses his lips, considering. “If you aren’t careful—”

“I’ll be _fine,_ Phil.”

“If you come back with another—”

“ _Phil._ ”

Phil raises his hands in defense. “You’ve justified my concerns one too many times, Techno. I’ve got to cover all my bases.”

Techno rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to get hurt.”

“You got hurt last time,” Phil says dryly. 

“That was different,” Techno says. 

“Was it, now?”

“Yes,” Techno says. 

Phil raises his eyebrows in question. 

Techno gives no answer. Indeed, he bites his tongue on the truth—that he’d failed to dodge an easy attack because it was from the _eighteenth_ person he’d fought that night, and he was exhausted—because he’s almost certain it will only injure his hopes. 

At his silence, Phil glances to his right. “What do you think, Wil?”

Wilbur stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I like money,” he says, shrugging.

Techno grins. “Now we’re talking,” he says.

“Besides,” Wilbur continues, smiling faintly. “From what I’ve seen, he’ll be just fine. I mean, Phil destroys you every time, Techno, but I think that’s just because it’s _Phil_.”

“Not _every_ time,” Techno mutters. 

“You’re right,” Wil says. “There was that one time you lasted a whole minute.”

Techno scowls. “I’d love to see _you_ try.”

“No, thanks,” Wilbur smirks. “I have this little thing called _self-preservation._ ” 

_“_ Point is, Phil,” Techno says loudly. “I’m not going to get hurt.”

“I don’t think he will, either,” Wilbur agrees.

Phil narrows his eyes at Techno. “You won’t be able to lie to me,” he says. “I’ll be watching.”

Techno furrows his eyebrows. “How?”

Phil raises his arm up. Faint pink crowns still dot his skin. 

“Well,” Techno says, vaguely relieved or vaguely disappointed that Phil won’t _actually_ be watching him. “I won’t need to lie, anyway. I won’t get hurt.”

Phil twists his lips to one side. At length, he nods shortly, and returns his eyes to his map. “Go on, then,” he says, sighing. “Have fun. Stay safe. Make money. That whole spiel.”

Techno grins.

///

His things are packed and ready. The sun sets. 

He stands to leave. 

“Good luck,” Phil says. 

“You already gave me your speech,” he says. 

Phil rolls his eyes. “Just don’t die, please. I’d hate to make my own money when I could just leech off of you.”

Techno snorts. “Right. Then who’d pay Wilbur?” 

“To be fair,” Wilbur says. “I accept various methods of payment.”

Techno smirks. “That’s very ambiguously phrased.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes and stands, too. “Money is the main one, of course, but food and housing also suffice.”

“Oh, yes,” Techno says, gesturing around the camp. “We’ve given you five star housing here.”

“ _Leave_ , boys,” Phil says, exasperated.

Techno pauses, furrowing his eyebrows. “Boys?” he asks. “As in…” He turns to Wilbur, furrowing his eyebrows. “Plural?”

Wilbur shrugs. “Figured I’d come along, if that’s all right.”

“To the SMP? Or to walk back to wherever you stay?”

“To the SMP,” Wilbur says. “To watch you fight.”

Techno spins toward Phil. “You told him to come,” he accuses. 

“He didn’t,” Wilbur cuts in before Phil can respond. “I wanted to. I was curious. But I, uh—I don’t have to come if it’s like, personal, or whatever, so—”

“No,” Techno says quickly. “No, it’s—it’s all right.” 

“Okay,” Wilbur says, smiling. “Great.”

///

“What do you call yourself?” Wilbur whispers over the cacophony. 

“Are you deaf?” Techno asks, fiddling with the mask to ensure it’s secure. “They just announced my name.”

“This place is loud,” Wilbur says. 

“Then you’re listening to the wrong things,” Techno says. He readjusts his grip on his sword. “You’ve got to listen to what you want to hear, not what they want you to hear.”

Wilbur blinks. “That was…surprisingly insightful.”

“Thanks,” Techno says. “Soak it in. You’ve reached the advice quota for the century.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. 

Techno lifts his sword. He gestures over his shoulder. “Well, I’ve got to, uh—”

“Right,” Wilbur says. He claps his hands together. “Have fun, I guess. And don’t die, like Phil said. Uh, try to win, and…and fight hard, and—”

“Good try,” Techno says, grinning. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Wilbur shoves his shoulder.

///

Wilbur gapes. 

Techno jumps out of the ring with a sack of coins in his hand.

“Techno—Blade! Blade, I mean! _Blade!”_

“Good save,” Techno deadpans. 

“That was—oh, _man_ , Techno. I can’t—that was—”

“Long?” Techno asks, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I know. Let’s go.”

They slip through the remaining crowd and out into the night. They do not speak until they’ve also slipped through the SMP’s border. 

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Wilbur asks. 

“No,” Techno says. 

“You beat eleven people,” Wilbur says.

“Don’t tell Phil,” he says, eyes widening. “ _Please_ don’t tell Phil. He’ll murder me.”

“Because you’re better than everyone else?”

“No. Because my fight limit is supposed to be three.”

Wilbur scrunches his nose. “Since when do you let Phil set your limits?”

“I don’t,” Techno says automatically. 

Wilbur smiles like he knows something.

“What?” Techno demands.

“Nothing,” Wilbur say, shrugging. “I won’t tell him. Anyway, want to what I decided earlier?”

“I don’t really care,” he says. 

“You’re name is Techno, right? And your fighting name is Blade.”

“I had no idea,” he says. 

“Well, what about _Technoblade?_ All in one. It’s got a nice ring to it, I think.”

Techno looks at him strangely. “My name is Techno,” he says. “Just Techno.”

Wilbur grins. “I’m going to call you Technoblade.”

“But— _why?_ My name is Techno.”

“I prefer Technoblade.”

“It’s _my_ name!”

“I’m the one saying it.”

“It’s—what _is_ this conversation?”

They collapse into laughter.

///

Every night, he fights. Every night, Wilbur comes with him. Every night, Techno finds he enjoys Wilbur’s company far, far more than he ever expected to.

On the nights that end earlier, they pick a sector on their map to search. One trip is much easier to make than two, after all—they’re killing two birds with one stone. They search and search and search and head home empty-handed. Wilbur splits off about a mile away from Techno and Phil’s camp to sleep alone, but he always returns with the dawn.

It’s not until they slump home in silence on a particularly eventless night that something changes.

The sun hasn’t yet begun its daily ascent, so Wilbur holds a flickering torch in his right hand and steps with focused care. Techno is too deep in thoughts of fights and wins and bruises to notice Wilbur glance at him, to notice the sudden change in Wilbur’s expression.

“Technoblade,” Wilbur says quietly.

“What?” Techno asks, not taking his eyes off the tree-line, not pulling his thoughts from their rabbit-hole.

“Technoblade,” Wilbur repeats.

Techno, scowling at the interruption, glances at him. 

He immediately stills.

Wilbur has turned to face him. A pool of coal black music discs stains his right cheek.

“Sorry,” Wilbur mutters. “I saw your marks, and I…I don’t know. Thought you’d like to know on your own terms, I guess.”

“I don’t want to know at all,” Techno says. 

“You would have found out, though. If you’d looked at me. So, I figured…you know. I’d tell you first.”

Techno rips his eyes back to the tree-line. He glares at the horizon, because it mocks him with its emptiness. The discs on Wilbur’s cheek mock him, too—they are black, they are faceless. Wilbur does not have the burden of knowing who is suffering, of knowing his age and his laugh and his smile and his personality and his heart and his—

“I never want to know,” Techno mutters. 

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Wilbur says, scrunching his nose. He readjusts his beanie, and Techno knows him well enough, now, to understand that he is trying to ease the burden of his ignorance, the burden of Techno’s knowledge. “It’s impossible to hide all of the markings.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Techno says.

Wilbur doesn’t respond, because it’s true—principle or fear or grief compel Phil and Techno to cover their soul marks with dirt, compel Wilbur to cover his with clothing. 

Techno resumes walking. Wilbur bows his head and follows. The torchlight fades.

They pass the spot Wilbur usually splits off, and neither of them think twice. 

When they return to camp, dirt is smeared on Phil’s right cheek.

“Is that you, Techno?” Phil calls without looking up from his flint and steel. 

“Yeah,” Techno says. 

“How were the fights?”

“Fine.” He tosses his sack of money onto the ground in front of Phil.

Phil looks up to catch it—or save it from landing in the small fire he’s started—but pauses. 

“Wil,” Phil greets, smiling faintly. “You’re here.”

Wilbur flushes. He drops his gaze, shrugging.

“I’ll fix you both dinner,” Phil says. He stands and brushes his hands off. “Or, breakfast, I suppose. Tech, can you make him a place to sleep?”

Techno nods, and Wilbur stays.

Wilbur stays.

///

“You look like a bookie,” Techno says.

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “I’m not into gambling,” he says. “Besides, you’re the last person I’d ever bet on.”

Techno snorts. “Planning to lose all of your money?”

“Getting cocky, are we?”

“I’m not getting cocky,” Techno says, flushing. “And if I _am_ —” Wilbur laughs, “—it’s well justified.”

“You do train hard, to be fair.”

“Plus, it’s _Phil_ training me. That’s automatic elevation.”

“Maybe I’ll have Phil train me,” Wilbur says. “I want an ego boost.”

Techno laughs and finishes tying his shoe. He looks back up and again furrows his eyebrows at the notebook in Wilbur’s hands. “Seriously, though,” Techno says. “Why do you have it?” 

“I’m not a bookie,” Wilbur says.

“That’s been established.”

Wilbur smiles, glancing at the notebook. “Well, I’m not entirely sure, yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I want to keep track of some things,” Wilbur says.

“During the fights?” 

“Just at the fight club in general.”

“What _things_?”

“Inconsistencies,” Wilbur says.

“Could you be any more ambiguous?” Techno asks.

“This is how I always feel while talking with you,” Wilbur says. “It’s high-time for _you_ to be confused by a conversation.”

“I don’t get it,” he says, ignoring Wilbur’s irrelevant—and false, besides—claim. “It’s an underground fight club. Unless you’re scouting—”

“I’m not,” Wilbur says.

“Then _why?_ Why do you need a notebook?”

Wilbur considers him, lips twisting to one side. “Do you really want to know?”

Techno furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Do I?”

Wilbur narrows his eyes for a long moment. 

“No,” he finally says, nodding in decision. “Not right before your fight. We can maybe talk about it after, if you remember to remind me.”

Techno shrugs it off. He wins his fights.

He does not remember to remind him.

///

_seventeen years old_

“I’m almost positive,” Techno says. 

“Well, so am I.”

Techno looks up at him dryly. “Guess where that leaves us?” 

“Lost?”

“No. Deadlocked.”

“That isn’t a place,” Wilbur says.

Techno sighs, rubbing his forehead. “That wasn’t funny,” he says. “You need more sleep.”

“I know,” Wilbur says easily. “I only got two hours last night.”

“I thought you told Phil you were going to start getting more.”

“And _I_ thought _you_ told Phil that you weren’t going to stay to search on Saturday nights.”

Techno scowls. He looks back down at the map. “ _Anyway,_ ” he says, because it is a Saturday night and they’ve stayed to search, “I’m almost positive we’ve already checked there.”

“But that doesn’t add up,” Wilbur argues. “Why wouldn’t we have crossed it off?”

“Exhaustion. Distraction. Depression. Delusion. De—”

“All right, all right,” Wilbur mutters. “It was a rhetorical question.”

Techno drags his hands down his face. “Let’s check it anyway,” he says. “Just in case.”

Wilbur hesitates. “Well, if you think we’ve—”

“Don’t change your argument now,” Techno snaps. He drops his hands to his sides, straightens, and stuffs the map in his pocket. “Come on. It’s not worth the risk.”

“Okay,” Wilbur says.

The place is familiar. They find nothing.

They cross the sector off of the map.

///

Techno hears them talking.

He doesn’t mean to, and he doesn’t want to. He wants to stare at the flames in front of him and the rocks in his hands and never, ever do anything else, because hearing and thinking and speaking and crying and wishing and regretting are all too taxing, too painful, too horrible _,_ too _much_.

_Seeing_ is the worst, though. He sees discs all over his skin. They are scarlet like the blood that surely pours from Tommy’s arms, face, chest, _everywhere._

Each day only brings more. They are getting worse and worse and it doesn’t matter that it’s his birthday, it doesn’t matter that he’s now twelve— _twelve_ ; it’s been three years; _how has it been three years_ —it doesn’t matter that he’s young or that he’s so much more, so much deeper than his first impression or that he is intelligent and hilarious and selfless and—

None of it matters. The man hurts him anyway.

Today is no exception.

He sits in the shadows just out of view of camp, so it is no surprise that they aren’t aware of his presence. They talk, and, even though he doesn’t mean to, even though he doesn’t want to, he hears.

“It’s not my story to tell,” Phil says, quiet words louder with each step he takes.

“But is he—I mean, is he okay? That’s all I want to know.”

There’s a long, heavy pause. 

“I don’t know,” Phil says softly. “I don’t think he knows what okay means anymore.”

///

“Hi,” Wilbur says shyly, wringing his hands together. 

Techno looks up. Wilbur’s face is spattered with black music discs. That is all that he can see. 

“Can I sit?” Wilbur asks.

He doesn’t wait for permission. He sits beside Techno on the log. 

When he doesn’t say anything else, Techno furrows his eyebrows. “Why are you here?” he asks, blunt in his confusion, curt in his detachment.

Wilbur shrugs. “Dunno,” he says. “Figured you could use some company.”

Techno stares at him.

He thinks of Phil’s words— _It’s not my story to tell_. He thinks of how, even after all these months, Wilbur has not pressed him for information. He thinks of how desperately Wilbur must have wanted to, yet, still, he left Techno to himself.

Even now— _Figured you could use some company_ —Wilbur does not demand information. 

Techno’s shoulders hunch. He takes a deep breath. 

“His name is Tommy,” he says, and the deja vu is harsh, ironic—he said these same words to Phil. “He turns 12 today.”

Wilbur turns to him, horrified, just like Phil had. “He’s only _12?”_

“Yes,” Techno says.

“Where is he?” Wilbur whispers. 

“Let me check my address book,” Techno says dryly.

“No, no. I mean…you know. Who is he with? Why did he leave?”

Techno sighs. His gaze slides back to his lap. “I don’t know who he’s with,” he mutters. “I was with him for a couple years, but he was…someone took him. A man who lives in the SMP. He’d had him before, and he took him again. That’s all I know.”

“Why?” Wilbur whispers.

Techno shrugs. His eyes burn.

“You’ve been looking this whole time, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Techno says. “And I won’t stop until I find him.”

The words sit heavy. They stare at the fire.

After a few minutes of silence, Wilbur says, “He must be a special kid.”

“Special is one word for it,” Techno says, huffing a bitter, longing laugh. “You’ll see.”

///

The moon peaks in the sky.

“Come on,” Wilbur says. “Let’s go back to camp.”

Techno bites the inside of his cheek. The rocks are heavy in his hands. “I’ll probably stay here for a little longer.”

“Come on,” Wilbur repeats. His smile is encouraging. “I’ll make a midnight dinner.”

It surprises Techno how much he _wants_ to go back, how badly he _wants_ to be with Wilbur, be with Phil. It scares him, a little—it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He wasn’t supposed to make friends, make family _again_. He does not have long until the universe snatches them away.

But tonight, his love is stronger than his fear, so he follows Wilbur back to camp.

///

Techno drops his swords to the ground. He puts his hands on his knees—bending over, breathing heavy.

“I’m proud of you,” Phil says.

“I’ve done that form a million times,” Techno says.

“Not for your fighting,” Phil says.

Techno looks up, confused, and finds Phil right before him.

Before he has a chance to understand or protest or resist, Phil pulls him into a hug.

He is stiff with surprise. The last time he’d hugged someone was…

He can’t remember.

But Phil squeezes him tighter, and, slowly, slowly, he relaxes.

“I’m so, so proud of you,” Phil whispers. 

“For what?” he asks, voice hoarse with carefully guarded emotion. 

“For everything, Techno. _Everything_.”

///

A man in a dark blue hoodie tells them that “The owner is out on business, so the club’ll have less traffic,” and it’s true—tonight is much emptier than usual.

Of late, Techno has noticed Wilbur sneaking down different halls and doorways before and after his fights. He always watches the actual fight, of course, but Techno is confused, now, because he is preparing to fight—not actually fighting—and Wilbur stands still, hugging his notebook to his chest.

His name is called, so he doesn’t get a chance to ask, but once he’s fought and they’ve searched and found nothing, Wilbur turns to him.

“Technoblade,” he says.

“Uh-oh,” Techno says. 

Wilbur’s smile is strained and frail, like something is hiding underneath, clawing for release. 

“Uh-oh,” Techno repeats.

“Listen, I…I’ve been thinking.”

“An anomaly,” Techno says.

Wilbur swallows and doesn’t take the bait, and that _really_ sets Techno’s nerves on edge. He furrows his eyebrows, slows his pace, and looks at Wilbur, confused. 

“Is everything—”

“I’m fine,” Wilbur says quickly. “I just…I’ve been thinking and watching and taking notes.”

“I’ve noticed,” Techno says carefully. “What’ve you been watching?”

“You won’t like it,” Wilbur says.

“Now I’m _really_ confused—”

“Something is off at the club,” Wilbur says bluntly.

Techno stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

“At the club,” Wilbur says. “Something is off.”

“What does that mean?”

“Something is wrong,” Wilbur says. “There’s something going on there. Something…underhanded.”

Techno looks at him blankly. He looks entirely serious—indeed, he looks grave—and laughter bubbles in Techno’s chest.

It escapes before he can reign it in. He laughs and Wilbur frowns and he asks, “Is that what you’ve been keeping track of? In your notebook?”

Wilbur’s confusion slips into irritation—his jaw locks, his eyes harden. “I’m not joking, Technoblade.”

“Me neither,” Techno says, joking. “Is that really what’s in your notebook?”

“Yes,” Wilbur says. His eyes narrow as Techno laughs harder. “It’s pages and pages of solid, sound proof. Something is wrong, here, Technoblade. Something serious.”

“Obviously,” Techno says through his laughter. “It’s an _illegal fight club_.”

Wilbur’s eyes widen momentarily—in comprehension or embarrassment, Techno isn’t sure—and Techno howls until his laughter fades.

“There’s _more_ , Technoblade—” Wilbur tries, but Techno resumes walking and cuts him off.

Wilbur clamps his mouth shut, purses his lips, and clutches the notebook tighter to his chest.

Techno doesn’t notice. 

///

“Expand it?” Techno echoes, weeks later. 

“Yeah,” Phil says. “When we get back, of course.”

Something like hope blooms in Techno’s chest. “Is—is Wilbur coming back with us?”

“Yes,” Phil says. “I talked with him yesterday.”

“Will he still work for you? Like, are you paying for him? Or—”

“No,” Phil says, smiling. “I offered, but he said the company pays for itself.”

Something like contentment, something like love, settles in Techno’s heart. It terrifies him.

“We’ll make it large enough for the four of us,” Phil continues. “It won’t take long to build, I don’t think.”

“Of course it won’t,” Techno says. “I’m the world’s best builder.”

“You’re horrible,” Wilbur says, walking up behind them, hauling Phil’s dead deer over his shoulder. “The world’s worst, probably.”

“Techno can do whatever he sets his mind to,” Phil says loyally.

Wilbur looks at him flatly.

Phil glances at Techno, shrugging. “Sorry,” he says. “Wilbur’s right.”

Wilbur laughs. Techno rolls his eyes.

///

Techno picks up a sack of coins and throws it into a pile on his left.

The sun is high and its heat is potent. Phil sits on his right, sorting through the various piles of coins. Wilbur sits in the shadow of a tree a couple feet away, head ducked over a book.

“We’re doing well,” Techno says.

“ _You’re_ doing well,” Phil says. 

Techno rolls his eyes. “It’s _our_ money, Phil.”

“It’s _yours_ ,” Wilbur contributes.

“I hereby proclaim—”

“You’re no king,” Wilbur interrupts, laughing. “Who are you to proclaim anything?”

“I’m the one with the money,” he says, and grins.

Wilbur snorts. “I knew you’d admit it.”

“I’m just an extremely selfless person,” he says. 

“Humble, too,” Phil says.

Techno throws a sack of money at him. 

Phil laughs. When he goes to pick up the sack, though, he furrows his eyebrows. A thin scroll of paper is attached to the sack with a red ribbon. 

“What’s this?” he asks. 

Wilbur squints up from his book. 

Techno shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it.”

Frowning, Phil tugs away the ribbon and unravels the scroll. He reads over it briefly, expression blank. Techno glances at Wilbur, holds his breath, and—

Phil looks up, grinning. “It’s an advert,” he says. “For a concert in the SMP.”

“An advert?” Techno echoes. “Like a flyer?”

Phil nods. He glances between them. “You two should go,” he says. “It’s in three days.”

Their reactions are simultaneous—Wilbur snorting, Techno recoiling. “Good luck getting Techno there,” Wilbur says at the same time as Techno says, “Absolutely not.”

Phil rolls his eyes, but drops the flyer. “ _I_ think it’d be fun,” he says.

“I think it’d be pointless,” Techno says, resisting the temptation to laugh at how quickly Phil abandoned his argument. “Why go when we have a musician of our own?”

Phil glances at Wilbur, smiling. “He isn’t wrong.”

“Not happening,” Wilbur says, flicking his eyes back down to his book.

“Why not?” Techno asks. “I’ve never heard you play.”

“You fall asleep too fast,” Wilbur says. “It’s not my fault you run yourself into the ground.”

“Well, it’s not my fault you’re an insomniac. You can play earlier.”

“You can stay up later,” Wilbur retorts.

“You don't have to play if you don’t want to, Wilbur,” Phil says. 

“Ha,” Wilbur says.

“And Tech,” Phil continues, rolling his eyes at Wilbur’s premature interruption, “you don’t have to go to the concert.” 

“ _Ha_ ,” Techno returns.

Phil points at Wilbur. “ _You_ need to fall asleep earlier.”

“I’m an adult!” Wilbur argues, scowling.

“Your brain is still developing,” Phil says firmly.

“But—”

“And _you_ ,” Phil says loudly, pointing at Techno, “need to quit overworking. Wilbur’s right. You do too much.”

“Fine,” Techno says, seeing no point in arguing something he will just lie about. 

Wilbur rolls his eyes and sees right through him.

Phil blinks. “That was easier than I expected,” he says.

“Those parental instincts are finally kicking in,” Wilbur says. 

Phil snorts. Techno laughs.

///

That night, after fighting and winning and searching and returning to camp empty-handed, he shovels a scoop of sugarcane into his mouth and blinks the exhaustion away. He lies down next to the fire. He shifts into a normal sleep position with his back to Wilbur. He closes his eyes. He evens his breaths. 

It hardly takes any time for Phil’s snores to begin. Techno smiles slightly—he is more awake, now; the sugar is kicking in—but does not move. He lies still, feigning sleep, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits. 

Seconds or minutes or hours later, he hears shuffling behind him.

He focuses on selling his act and thinks he does quite well, because after a moment, a soft melody pours into the campsite.

It is beautiful.

He’ll never admit it, of course—indeed, even if pressed, he’d call it rough around the edges—but it is _beautiful_. He has to fight sleep’s claim harder than he ever has to stay awake, to listen, because he doesn’t want to do anything _but_ listen—forever and ever and ever. 

The notes lilt and the chords sing and, at length, Wilbur’s voice joins the chorus. The firelight flickers on his eyelids. The music lulls him toward unconsciousness. 

He falls asleep, so he doesn’t know, but if he _hadn’t_ been asleep, he’d hear Wilbur stop singing, stop strumming. He’d hear Wilbur silently place his guitar down, silently pad across the campsite. 

He wouldn’t see Wilbur, because his eyes would be closed, but if they were to open, he’d see Wilbur look at him with shining pride, with brimming love, because for the first time in his life, someone wanted to listen to _his_ music, and because Techno wasn’t near as subtle as he thought he was, and because he’d teased Techno earlier about falling asleep too early so Techno had intentionally stayed awake to listen.

Techno falls asleep, so he doesn’t know, but if he _hadn’t_ been asleep, he’d hear Wilbur whisper, “You’re ridiculous,” but really mean, _You’re everything_.

It doesn’t matter, though, because he _does_ fall asleep, and, for once, instead of blood red music discs, he dreams of ocean-blue guitars.

///

Wilbur and Phil go to collect seasoning herbs for Phil’s deer. 

Wilbur forgets to put his notebook away.

Techno stares. It sits alone, unprotected on a dusty rock, where it should not sit—where it has never sat before—and he thinks back to how Wilbur takes it to every event at the club, to how he’ll sneak off with it before and after Techno’s fights, to how he guards its contents with careful care.

He wants to open it. He wants to read it.

But then he thinks back to last night. He thinks back to how Wilbur is too shy to sing while they’re awake and listening, to how he wrote his own songs because he had no one to teach him—just like Techno had learned to fight himself—to how Wilbur’s voice gave him a more peaceful sleep than he’s had in years, and he hesitates. 

He wants to open it, but he does not want to break Wilbur’s trust. It is not his to read. It is not his knowledge to know.

He turns away and curses himself, because he’s _soft_ , isn’t he? 

Love has made him soft.

When Wilbur and Phil come back laughing, though, he finds he doesn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for bonding and plot continuation and also SOMEONE RETURNS NEXT CHAPTER.... :D 
> 
> I'd really appreciate it if you let me know what you thought--feedback means the world! Either way, thanks so much for reading!!! <33


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely responses last chapter! Some of you guys' theories were dang accurate--I loved reading them so much! You are all the best! <3
> 
> This chapter also ran away with me, but it's the last one that will, lol. It's pretty plot heavy so it needed to be longer. I thought about splitting it into two, but...well, here we are. From here on out chapters will be shorter (and hopefully more frequent!). 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :D

_eighteen years old_

“It’s true, then?” Wilbur whispers. 

“Apparently,” Techno mutters, staring at the paper pinned to the bulletin board.

_TOURNAMENT OF CHAMPIONS BRACKET_ , the headline reads, and underneath: _MATCHES BEGINON THE 3RD._

“What the hell,” Techno says baldly.

“Did they tell you anything about it?” Wilbur asks.

“Nothing.”

Wilbur leans toward the wall, squinting. “No surprises there,” he murmurs. 

“Literally all of this is a surprise,” Techno says. “I knew nothing about—”

“No, no,” Wilbur dismisses. He gestures to the paper. “You’re first seed, unsurprisingly.”

Techno blinks. He furrows his eyebrows and follows Wilbur’s gaze. 

At the bracket’s top left, underneath the # _1_ , is written _THE BLADE_. His record is listed beside his name: _783-0._ His opponent, seed # _16,_ is called _MR. INCREDIBLE_ , and his record is _284-126._

“I don’t understand,” he says.

“They’ve tracked your performances,” Wilbur says. “You’ve done the best, so you get to face someone who hasn’t done as well.”

“That’s not fair to him. He’s going to get destroyed.”

Wilbur smiles. “I know.” 

“I wonder who the…” He trails off, examining the sheet again.

“Here,” Wilbur says, pointing, because of course he knows exactly what Techno was looking for. “The second seed.”

Written near the bottom of the page, with a record of _768-0_ , is the _#2_ seed.

“Dream,” Wilbur says.

Techno narrows his eyes at the name, searing it into his mind. 

_DREAM_. 

“Undefeated,” Wilbur says quietly.

“So am I,” Techno counters.

“I’m well aware,” Wilbur says, glancing at him with a hint of a smile. 

“I’ve never heard of him,” Techno says. 

“Me neither,” Wilbur says. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, yeah?”

“What, scouting?” 

“I don’t think you want to go into this blind. He’s got a perfect record, just less fights.”

Techno snatches a copy of the schedule from the paper-holder on the wall and shoves it into his pocket. “S’pose you’re right,” he mutters. “I’ll talk to people. Find out when he’s fighting.”

He turns to leave, but Wilbur puts a hand on his shoulder. “I think that’s more my area of expertise. You focus on training with Phil until I’ve figured everything out, yeah? Then we can watch him together.”

“Is that an insult?” Techno asks, but a weight drops from his shoulders—he despises avoidable interaction. 

Wilbur smiles, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Probably.”

Techno rolls his eyes.

///

“When’s your birthday?”

Phil glances up from his mango. “First of March.”

Techno takes a bite, nodding. 

Phil raises an eyebrow. “Planning something special, then?”

“Have you met me?” Techno deadpans. “Of course not.”

Phil grins.“I should’ve known.”

“Spontaneity is better,” Techno says.

“You don’t _really_ believe that,” Phil says, stabbing another piece of mango. “You put thought into everything you do.”

“Not where it concerns you,” Techno says, grinning now, too. “You really think I’d plan something this far in advance?”

“Why’d you ask, then?”

Techno shrugs. “Curiosity.”

Phil scrutinizes him with narrowed eyes that do not, for a single second, buy his lie. Techno knows this, and feigns apathy, but excitement bubbles in his chest.

“Time’ll tell,” Phil says. 

Techno smirks. “I guess it must.”

///

“That’s him,” Wilbur whispers.

“The one in the offensive green?” 

Wilbur smirks. “It’s not so bad.”

“It’s _hideous._ ”

“You mean _bright_ ,” Wilbur corrects. “Dull is boring. _You’re_ boring. I like the bright.”

Techno rolls his eyes, then focuses them on the fight. After a moment, his levity has faded, and he mutters, “He’s agile. Smart, too.”

“You’ve been watching for three seconds,” Wilbur says dryly. “You can’t possibly know—”

“I can tell,” Techno cuts in. “Look how he—see how he spun away from the contact? He knew it was coming, and he knew he wasn’t as big, so he…”

Techno trails off to gape. 

The crowd erupts. They both stare.

In the center of the ring, a bloodied and unconscious man tips off his feet and spills onto the floor. Beside him, a man wearing a smiley-face mask tucks his sword away, jumps over the ropes, and slams two dark-haired friends into a hug. 

“He never had a _chance_ ,” one with a headband shouts, grinning. “Neither does anyone else.”

“Only took you thirty seconds,” the other says, in an accent not so unlike Wilbur’s. 

“Impressed?” Dream asks. 

“Not particularly,” the accent replies. “I’ve seen better.”

Dream shoves him, and the three move, laughing, out of hearing range. 

“Ender,” Wilbur mutters. “He destroyed him.”

Techno scowls. “Thanks for confidence boost.”

Wilbur spins to face him, eyes wide. “That’s not what I—”

“I don’t care.”

“You’re going to win, Technoblade,” Wilbur says. “Of course you are. That’s not what I meant. He’s just better than I expected.”

“Were you expecting incompetence?” Techno asks flatly. “He’s got a flawless record, Wilbur.”

“I know, I know, it’s just…” Wilbur sighs. “You make everyone you fight seem awful, y’know? I’m not used to seeing someone else do the same.”

“Well,” Techno says, eyes hardening, “ _don’t_ get used to it. Phil and I’ve been training hard. I don’t plan on being replaced.”

“See? You don’t need my confidence boost. You’ve plenty to spare.”

Techno looks at him dryly.

Wilbur grins. He takes a step away. “I’ll be right back,” he says. “I’ve got something to check on.”

Techno frowns. “What could you possibly—”

“I’ll be right back,” Wilbur repeats. “Promise.”

He turns and walks away. The notebook peeks out of his coat pocket.

Techno narrows his eyes, but another fight begins, and he turns to finish what they’d come to do—scout the competition.

Dream wins every match.

///

“He’s _arrogant_ ,” Techno explains.

Wilbur doesn’t tear his gaze from the thicket before them. 

“Wilbur?” Techno asks, furrowing his eyebrows. “Are you even listening?”

“Sure,” Wilbur says absently.

“Wilbur,” Techno says. Vines of worry slide into his voice. “What’s wrong?”

Wilbur blinks out of whatever haze he’d been in. He shakes his head. “Sorry. What’d you say?”

“That I know Dream’s weakness,” Techno says slowly, forehead pinching. “But—”

“What is it, then?” Wilbur asks.

Techno frowns. “Wilbur—”

“What is it?” Wilbur repeats.

“Arrogance,” Techno dismisses. “But—”

“ _That’s_ his weakness?” Wilbur asks, and his tone is too forced, too passionate for his focus to be anywhere but a million miles away. “I thought you’d say an injury, or—or a favored foot, or something. Not _arrogance_.”

Techno stops walking and crosses his arms over his chest. “Wilbur,” he says flatly.

Wilbur winces. “I’m that transparent, am I?”

“Like glass,” Techno confirms. 

Wilbur sighs. He drags a hand down his face. “Sorry. I just…have a lot on my mind.”

“Oh,” Techno says, recoiling slightly at the idea of an emotionally-charged conversation. But it’s _Wilbur_ , so he clears his throat, rolls his shoulders back, and says, “Try me.”

Wilbur snorts. “I’m not the only transparent one.”

Techno flushes, but soldiers on. “Is it about the club again? Your notebook?”

“Technoblade,” Wilbur says, stopping to look at him. “It’s all right. Really.”

“I _want_ to help,” Techno mutters. “I’m just…not the best at talking about it.” 

“That’s fine, because I don’t want to think about it, anyway. It’s been on my mind too much lately.”

“I can listen,” Techno offers, “if you ever want to share. But that’s about the extent of it.”

Wilbur smiles. “Thanks, Tech, but I’ll just talk to Phil.”

“You sure?” Techno asks.

“Perfectly,” Wilbur says, nodding. They resume walking. “Now. Arrogance?”

///

“And?” Phil asks, lifting his sword up. “Excited? Nervous?”

“Apathetic,” Techno says.

Phil rolls his eyes. “You wish,” he says.

“I do,” Techno says, snorting. “I do wish.”

“Come on. Honestly. How are you feeling about it?”

“I don’t see how my answer will change anything,” Techno says. “It’s _tomorrow_. Nothing I do now will help.”

“ _Sleep_ will help,” Phil says, “which is why we’ve got to train until you’re exhausted. But you’re right—it’s more of a formality. That’s something people do, y’know—ask _how are you_.”

“I wasn’t aware,” Techno says. 

Phil laughs. “Aren’t you a bottle of sunshine today?”

“Always,” Techno says, but he smiles, and they fight.

Like always, he loses every match. His smile doesn’t fade. 

///

“Ender,” Wilbur mutters.

People flood the club. It’s more crowded, eager, cacophonous than it has ever been. The blinding torches are tinted by colored glass panes, and they only add to the chaos—bouncing off of the weary, polished surfaces and tainting vision. The framed paintings of horns on the wall are accented in sharp, confusing clarity—Techno still does not understand their relevance. 

It doesn’t matter, in the end, because Techno infuses every last shred of his effort into maintaining focus. He succeeds. The fearful lights and anxious discussions do not throw him off. Wilbur does not leave him to investigate, tonight—when his turn comes to fight, he grabs Techno’s shoulders, evaluates him critically, nods, and says, “You’re ready.”

Techno’s assent is easy, but Wilbur is not fooled. He narrows his eyes. “Technoblade.”

“Not my name,” Techno says. 

“You’re _ready_ ," he insists.

Techno shakes his grip off—the tangible pressure makes the _in_ tangible pressure feel so, so much realer, and he cannot stand it. “I know,” he says. “I’m not worried.” He hesitates before adding, “For this fight.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “There’s no chance Dream has trained as hard as you. Besides, who knows? He might not even advance.”

Techno looks at him flatly. “That’s like saying _I_ won’t advance.”

Wilbur grins. “Prove me wrong, then.”

Techno does.

///

“How’d you do?” Phil demands immediately.

“I lost,” Techno says. 

“He won,” Wilbur says, rolling his eyes, but grinning all the same. “ _Easily_.”

“Doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” Phil says. “When’s the next match?”

“Tomorrow,” Techno says. “The tournament is four days long. All in a row.”

“Well, come on. We’ve got to get some energy in you. You’re probably drained.”

“Nah,” Techno says. “The fight was short.”

Phil glances at them over his shoulder, wary eyes betraying the levity in his voice. “Why’re you home so late, then?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Techno says, pursing his lips. He turns raised eyebrows on Wilbur. “I couldn’t find him, so I had to wait an extra hour.”

A steady flush builds on Wilbur’s face, but he does not take the bait. He mutters, “Sorry, Phil.”

“S’not much of a reason,” Phil says. 

Wilbur cringes. “I…uh—”

“I was kidding, Phil,” Techno lies, suddenly not wanting to burden Phil with Wilbur’s obsessive investigations. “Just wanted to throw him in the shade. We stayed back to search a bit.”

Phil hums. “Warn me next time, yeah? Like you usually do.”

The boys agree. Phil treads ahead to serve the meal.

When he’s far enough out of earshot, Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well,” Techno mutters. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I’m sorry, Technoblade,” Wilbur murmurs. “I didn’t mean to get caught up that long.”

“Where were you, anyway?” he asks.

Wilbur turns to him, eyes flaming. He pulls the increasingly damaged notebook from inside his coat and extends it out for Techno to take. “I’m so, so close, Technoblade. Please read it. You’re a genius. You’d be able to help me put the pieces together.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Techno says flatly, dismissing the notebook with a flick of his hand. Wilbur’s lips purse. “Where were you?”

“Technoblade—”

“The fight club, yeah?” 

Wilbur averts his gaze. He nods. 

Techno scowls. “You think it’s…what, corrupt?”

“I think something is seriously wrong—” Wilbur says, words coming faster and stronger as Techno rolls his eyes, “—and that the owner is tricking everyone—”

“The owner?” Techno asks flatly. “He hasn’t been seen in months, Wilbur. Even _I’ve_ never met him.”

“ _Exactly,_ ” Wilbur says. “That’s strange, isn’t it? You’re his best fighter, yet—”

“But he’s never _around,_ ” Techno says. “It doesn’t make any sense for him to be involved.”

With each second that passes, Wilbur’s impassioned expression retreats, closes. “You’re not going to listen,” he concludes, heaving a deep breath. “No matter what I say.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” Wilbur says. Disappointment glints in his eyes, and he turns to continue walking. “It is.”

Techno scowls and, after Wilbur has moved only a couple of steps, addresses the heart of his dislike for Wilbur’s claims. “We can’t lose the club, Wilbur.”

Wilbur pauses, bowing his head.

“We _can’t_. It brings us everything. I mean…Ender, Wil. If I win, I get to buy Phil the tractor he’s been talking about for years.”

“Right,” Wilbur says harshly, turning. “Because there aren’t any paying jobs in the SMP.”

“None of them will pay like this,” Techno says—desperate, almost, in his need for Wilbur to understand. “There’s so much money here, and all I have to do is fight. It’s easy, and I’m good at it, and—”

“Ah,” Wilbur says. He crosses his arms, narrows his eyes. “There it is.”

Techno furrows his eyebrows.

“I get it, now,” Wilbur continues. “It’s not about the money at all. It’s about you.”

Techno clamps his mouth shut. His jaw clicks.

“ _You’re_ good at it, so it doesn’t matter that the owner has been laundering money for years, or that there are broken bottles and bloodstains all over the floor of his office or that evidence points to something even _worse_ happening. You’re a good fighter, so none of that matters. Sound about right?”

Techno’s glare eases, slightly, in confusion.

“That’s what I thought,” Wilbur mutters. 

He turns and walks away.

Techno does not stop him.

///

Wilbur comes with him to the fight. Not on Phil’s insistence, Phil insists, but Techno harbors doubt nonetheless. 

The journey is tense and silent. Only Techno’s pride prevents him from apologizing, from pressing for details. 

As soon as they arrive at the club, Wilbur splits off. Techno warms up.

Just before he fights, he glimpses Wilbur in the crowd.

It doesn’t matter. He is still confused, desperate, furious. 

His opponent is beaten in seconds. 

///

Techno reads the line again. Still, it does not register.

He is seconds away from giving up when Phil approaches him. “Hey, Tech.”

Techno glances at him, sees his drawn eyebrows, and asks, “Something wrong?”

“Dunno. Have you seen Wil?”

Techno’s eyes drop back down to his book. “He stayed behind.”

“In the SMP?” Phil asks. 

Techno nods. 

“Strange. What for?”

“Something important, I imagine.”

Phil hums. “Well, all right, then. When you’re done, help me collect firewood, would you?”

Techno nods.

///

Dream fights before him, and the ice between he and Wilbur thaws, slightly, in the face of Dream’s performance.

“There it is, then,” Wilbur says. “Tomorrow night.”

“Unless I lose.”

Wilbur turns to face him. “You won’t,” he says. “And you’ll beat Dream. No doubt in my mind.”

“I’m not sure,” Techno mutters. “Every time I watch him he looks better.”

“Technoblade,” Wilbur chastises. He stays silent until Techno looks at him. “You’re going to win.”

A hint of a smile tugs at Techno’s lips. “For the money, if nothing else.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Let’s set that all aside for now, yeah? I don’t want us to fight. I want you to win.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” Techno says.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Techno says, with as much emotion as can possibly be conveyed beneath a pig mask. “Yeah. I do.”

The announcer shouts _THE BLADE_.

He fights. He wins.

///

“You guys made up, then?” Phil asks. 

“What?”

“You and Wil,” he clarifies.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Techno says. 

“Uh huh,” Phil says. He settles on the log in front of Techno. “I have a question.”

Techno raises his eyebrows. 

“Can I come? Watch, I mean? Tonight?”

Techno blinks. “You want to—you want to come?”

Phil smiles. “I’ve wanted to since the first night you went,” he says. “But it was your and Wilbur’s thing from the outset. I didn’t want to interfere.”

“You mean you wanted us to bond,” Techno infers. “And now that you think we’re fighting—”

“That’s not it,” Phil says. “Well, it _was_ at first. Kind of. I wanted you to bond. But you guys are close enough, now, and I want to watch you fight. Tonight’s the championship, yeah?”

“I’ll probably do worse with you there,” Techno says. 

“I don’t have to come,” Phil says. “S’why I asked.”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “It’s fine.”

“Sure?”

Techno nods. 

Phil grins.

///

The fight is long.

Casual fights—outside of tournaments—don’t have rounds. Two competitors fight until one can’t continue. Techno’s fights thusly last no longer than half an hour, average.

Tournament fighting, on the other hand, _does_ have rounds. The preliminary rounds are best of five. The championship is best of ten. 

_Ten_ , which doesn’t much make sense to Techno—what if the fighters tie? Wilbur explains that it’s all a business operation, isn’t it? If the fighters tie, there’s a rematch, which secures double or triple the income.

Wilbur springs this information on him seconds before he steps into the ring. He wants to react as he is justified to—with incredulity, shock, irritation that he had not been previously informed—but Dream and his corner are watching him closely, likely attempting to intimidate him, so, shrugging, he wipes his expression.

“Not an issue,” he says.

Wilbur nods.

Phil grabs his shoulders and looks at him seriously. “Remember what we talked about, yeah? Use the ring to your advantage. He wants to combo, so don’t let him advance. Sweep his feet when you can. He’s much weaker—”

“—off balance,” Techno finishes, nodding. “I know, Phil.”

“You’ve only gone over it a hundred times,” Wilbur says.

Techno casts him a flat look. “Appreciate the helpful input.”

“I’m just saying,” Wilbur just says. 

Phil shakes his shoulders gently, and his eyes dart back to Phil’s face. “Wilbur’s right, Tech. You’ve been over this a thousand times. You’re as prepared as you can be.”

“Exactly,” Wilbur says. “If he beats you, he’s just better.”

Techno turns to him, scowling, but there’s a smile on Wilbur’s face. It contrasts harshly with the nerves in his eyes, but he’s trying to lighten the mood, so Techno only rolls his eyes.

Phil releases his shoulders. “Well, go on, then,” he says. “Dream’s in the ring.”

Techno glances over his shoulder to find Dream standing at the edge of the ring, slouching over the ropes to converse casually with his dark-haired friends. He looks the opposite of how Techno feels—supremely confident, entirely unbothered.

“Don’t worry about him,” Wilbur mutters. “You were right on one count: his arrogance.”

“I’m never wrong,” Techno says.

Wilbur smiles. “You’re arrogant, too. You’ll give him a match, then. In that regard, if not actual fighting.”

Techno huffs a laugh. His hands shake. He pulls one through his braid.

“Do us proud,” Phil says. 

He takes a deep breath, flicks his eyes over their faces one more time, turns around, and enters the ring. 

The roars of the crowd increase tenfold. Dream is by far the fan-favorite—he is an entertainer; Techno is only a fighter—but Techno is by no means disliked. People like winners. Whoever wins this will be loved. Whoever loses this will be shunned. 

Dream feeds off of the noise, and he turns to wave at the spectators. Techno works hard to tune them out, to ease their shouts into white noise at the back of his mind. He grips his sword tightly in his hand. The tape Phil had applied keeps his grip from slicking, but beads of sweat pool underneath. He heaves in deep, steadying breaths, one after another.

The torchlight dims. Time begins to blur. The announcer steps into the ring in the spotlight of his own torch. He shouts their names, declares their odds based on the latest bets—which bets have totaled to succeed 800,000 coins—and deposits his torch in a sconce, as tradition demands. 

With this gesture, the lights raise again, until everything is a haze of colors and brightness and noise. He floats away from his mind, almost—in the mental state one enters in a high pressure, highly anticipated situation: present, but not present. Only Phil and Wilbur’s constant encouragements tie him to reality. 

“Shake hands,” the announcer tells him and Dream, and they step to the center of the ring.

“Dream,” Dream says, extending his hand. There’s a grin in his voice. “Pleasure.”

High-strung as he is, he almost, _almost_ introduces himself as Technoblade. Instead, he clears his throat, accepts the handshake, and says, “Blade.”

“Good luck,” Dream says.

Techno nods.

The announcer has them present their weapons of choice—both of them have one sword—and then the fight begins. 

His initial evaluations of Dream prove correct: he is fast, and he is confident. He rushes at Techno without a doubt in his mind. Techno dodges his attacks first, but, as he gets his bearings about him, begins to push back, stronger and stronger with each Dream miss.

Before long, Dream lies on the ground with Techno’s sword pointed at his neck. 

Phil and Wilbur shout their approbation. Techno wins the round.

Dream does not underestimate him again—he wins the next round. Techno wins the following two with a nearly indefensible form that Phil’d invented himself. Dream, though, is not perturbed, and hits Techno with a flurry of combos that tie the score at 3-3. 

“Techno,” Phil says, as soon as he’s reached his corner in between rounds. His breaths are labored and his vision is blurring with sweat dripping from his forehead—Wilbur shoves a can of water into his hand and wipes his forehead with a cloth. Phil lifts Techno’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Techno,” he repeats. “You’re losing focus.” 

“I’m—I’m not,” Techno manages. “I’m fine.”

“You must be tired, then,” Phil chastises, “because you’re being careless. Allowing him to flank you? Push you into the corner? You’re—hey, look at me.”

Techno flicks his eyes back up. 

“You’re better than this,” Phil says.

Techno takes an anchoring breath. “I know,” he says.

“Show us, then,” Phil says, and, despite the sweat and dirt and blood covering Techno, Phil pulls him into a brief hug. 

The bell rings. The round starts.

Techno wins easily.

In the eighth round, Dream gets lucky. Techno cuts off his advances quickly, not willing to let himself get comboed again, but he pushes too aggressively. When he steps in a bloodspot on the mat, his stance falters, and he misses the final blow. Dream ducks under his advance, knocks the sword from his hand, and Techno is forced to raise his hands in defeat.

4-4.

The next round is a battle. One person in Dream’s corner screams at him to _stay calm_ and _stay focused_ , while the other screams at him to _slice him to hell_ and _have no mercy_. Dream’s strategy is, essentially, a perfect mix of the two. He attacks with desperate hunger, but retreats when he gets too wild. It’s a blessing for Techno, because he is not as fast as Dream, and the intensity of the attacks almost barrels him over.

It is during one of Dream’s rest periods that Techno strikes with a form that makes the crowd’s volume increase ridiculously. He leaves Dream standing, shell-shocked, with his sword strewn half-way across the ring. 

Techno limps to his corner. “At least now I won’t lose,” he says, hauling breath after breath into his lungs.

It’s Wilbur’s turn to hug him. “5-4,” he says. “Secure it, now, so all of this’ll be over for good.”

Techno nods, pulls away, and gulps water from his can. He hands it back to Wilbur and turns to Phil for instruction.

Phil grins hugely. “That’s the form we practiced,” he says. “No wonder he couldn’t stop it.”

Techno manages a smile. 

“Why couldn’t he?” Wilbur asks, not understanding. 

“It was a two-sworded form,” Phil replies. “But he did it with one.”

“How is that possible?” Wilbur asks. 

“I hadn’t known it was,” Phil says, smiling. 

Techno steps back into the ring. The nerves aren’t as strong, now. There is less pressure to win, since he has, at least, a guaranteed tie. 

It doesn’t matter. He wins. 

Wilbur leaps over the ropes and slams him into a hug. He’s screaming and jumping up and down, and Phil is slower in his ascent, but joins the hug once he joins them in the center of the ring. The audience and announcer scream, cheer, chant his name, and it’s all so, so strange, and he is grinning in glory and sharp relief, and then the announcer is pulling him out of the ring.

“Someone wants to meet you,” the announcer mutters in his ear.

Techno nods, still smiling. He glances over his shoulder to locate Phil and Wilbur—maybe shout that he’ll be right back—but when he finds Phil, Wilbur is not beside him.

He scours the packed room for Wilbur, and sees him not a moment later. 

His smile falters.

Dream is limping down one of the fighter’s tunnels with his two friends supporting either of his shoulders. Wilbur is trailing mere feet behind him. Dream turns into a tunnel. 

Wilbur turns after him.

Techno stares. 

The announcer quietly rebukes him and yanks him along a hallway, muttering, “He doesn’t like to wait.”

Techno tears his eyes away—hurt, confused, furious. He doesn’t have time to think about it, though, because soon he’s shoved into a room. 

The announcer closes the door behind him. 

Techno blinks in his new surroundings. The decor is ostentatious, but shadowed and chaotic—there are, again, random paintings of horns on the wall.

Shattered glass has been hastily swept under the desk. Bloodstains dot the floor. 

Techno bites his cheek.

He lifts his eyes to see a man sitting behind the desk, arms folded, grinning at him. A hood shrouds his head. Dark facial hair shrouds his face.

“I’ve been waiting awhile to meet you,” the man says. His voice is practiced, smooth. He gestures for Techno to take the extra chair. “Please.”

Techno doesn’t move. “You’re the owner.”

“Smart man. Do you not want to sit?”

“You’ve been gone awhile,” Techno says.

The man, grinning sharply, abandons all endeavors to get Techno to sit. “You’re right,” he says. “But I believe I owe you something. Besides, I’d never miss a chance to meet my protege.”

Techno narrows his eyes at the term, and opens his mouth to demand explanation when the owner pulls a chest from under his desk. He sets it down, turns it toward Techno, and slides the lid open.

Techno stares.

“Nice, isn’t it?” the owner asks. He pushes the chest forward. “It’s yours. Prize money.”

Techno hesitantly takes the chest. It’s heavy. It’s incredible. 

“I doubled it,” the owner says, “in hopes that we’d engage in future business.”

“Business?” Techno echoes.

“Correct,” the owner says. The edge of his grin is softened by the stacks of coins in Techno’s hold. The owner leans forward. “There’s much more where this came from.”

“I’m no mercenary,” Techno says. 

“I’d never ask you to be,” the owner says easily. “Only to fight, as you’ve done your entire life.”

“You know nothing of my life,” Techno says, narrowing his eyes.

“True,” the owner allows. “But I’ve had my own challenges, Blade. I recognize a fellow soldier when I see him.”

Techno considers this. He considers, too, the glass beside his feet, the blood on the floor, the doubts Wilbur had voiced. He considers, moreover, the money in his hands.

“What’s your proposal?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing for tonight,” the owner says. “Go celebrate with yours. I assume you won’t be fighting tomorrow?”

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

“Good,” the owner says. “Then we’ll meet here tomorrow, during the closing fight. Just to discuss. No pressure, no commitment.”

Techno purses his lips. He nods.

The owner grins.

///

Techno pushes the chest inside of a log and promises not to uncover it until the first of March. 

///

“ _Techno!”_ Wilbur shouts. “Congratulations!” 

Techno doesn’t look up. 

“Techno!”

Still, he studies the book before him.

Wilbur finally reaches him. “All right?”

“Fine,” Techno says curtly.

“Surely more than fine,” Wilbur says, almost laughing. “You just won—”

Techno stands up, turns, and starts to walk away.

“What—Techno?”

“Leave off, Wilbur,” he says harshly.

Wilbur stops. “What? What…have I done something?” 

“Ask Dream,” he snaps.

“Ask… _what?_ You don’t…oh.”

Techno’s snort is mocking. He does not slow.

“No, don’t—you don’t understand, Technobalde,” Wilbur starts. “I need help, and—”

Phil walks up to them, grinning at Techno. “Unsurprising victory,” he says. “Congratulations. You deserve it more than anyone in the world.”

Techno thanks him dramatically, profusely, and leaves them both standing there, confused.

///

Techno sheathes his sword, just in case. 

Phil comes up behind him. “Wilbur’s worried about you,” he says. 

“Not as worried as he was about Dream,” Techno mutters.

Phil hums. If he understands, he doesn’t push. “Wish we might’ve celebrated more. Or at all.”

Techno shrugs.

“Listen, Tech. I’m sure he has a reason for—”

“You don’t need to apologize for him,” Techno snaps. “He’s not a child.” He stands and heaves his backpack onto his shoulder.

“Where are you off to?”

“Need some air,” Techno lies.

“You’re standing in the forest.”

“Away from Wilbur,” Techno says.

“Wilbur’s not here, either. I think he’s gone back into the SMP.”

“Lovely,” Techno says, and walks away.

Phil sighs.

///

He’s early. 

He imagines it’s all right, though—he can’t have been expected to know just what time the closing fight would start. He ducks past distracted people, turns down a hallway, and walks toward the owner’s office.

As he approaches the shut door, though, he slows. 

Someone is screaming. 

Not in pain or fear, but in anger. He can make out wisps of incandescent insults and vulgar curses. 

Immediately, he tenses. Fight instincts tell him to enter, to find out what’s wrong—and so does Wilbur’s voice in his head: _Something is wrong here, Technoblade. Something serious_ —but his self-preservation—a natural result of many, many years of solitude—wins out, and he takes a couple steps away.

Just as he determines to wait with the crowds for the last fight to begin, the sharp shriek of shattering glass escapes the office.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. 

He moves back to the office. He whips the door open.

The room is dark and crowded, so no one pays him notice. The screams, ever louder, pierce his ears. They are so incensed that words are difficult to make out, but he catches fragments of the phrases: “—a _child,_ no less—” “As the nation’s _leader_ —” “— _disgusting_ —” “—only a matter of time.”

He shoves past a dark-haired man and finds, to his utter shock, Wilbur.

His face is violet in his anger. His hands are spattered with blood. Broken glass halos his feet. There is a pool of blood behind him and, for a split second, Techno thinks it’s _his_ blood, but he then notices a second pair of feet, and realizes that Wilbur is bodily shielding someone—someone young, Techno thinks, though he cannot tell in the darkness.

The owner stands behind his desk, hands splayed like he is unable to think of issue or solution. Three other men stand in the vicinity—on Wilbur’s side, not the owner’s. Two are dark-haired, and the third—

The third wears a familiar white mask. He is dressed in lime green.

Techno stares.

He takes everything in in a mere second and, without further delay, demands in a shout, “What the _hell_ is going on?”

Wilbur’s rantings do not falter. Dream and his friends are useless—they are shouting, too—but he doesn’t want or trust information from them, anyway. The owner is the only one who notices him—turning, raising his eyebrows, grinning. The grin looks different tonight—malicious, rabid, feral. “Blade,” he greets, stretching his arms wide, completely ignoring Wilbur’s screaming. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Techno ignores him in turn, spinning instead to face Wilbur. “ _Wilbur_ ,” he shouts. “It’s _me._ ”

“—ridiculous, and to then _abuse_ —”

“Oh,” the owner says. “Know him, do you?”

Techno glares at him.

“Wilbur,” the owner says placatingly. “Do you know the Blade?”

Wilbur cuts off abruptly. His breaths come sharp and shallow. He glances at Techno through the corner of his eye and snarls at the owner. “He’s my brother. And once he finds out what you’ve been doing, here, he’ll—”

“No need for that,” the owner says. He whistles with two fingers. At the noise, the child behind Wilbur cringes, cowers, sinks. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve such an unfortunate relative, Blade,” the owner continues, turning back to Techno. His face hardens. His eyes glint. “I liked you, though, so I’ll give you this mercy. If I see you here again, I’ll kill you all on sight. Do you understand?”

Techno’s heart stops. Everything is moving too quickly—he cannot keep up. _“What?”_

Before the owner can do more than shrug—before Techno can reach over the desk and wring his neck like a rag or put to good use the sword he’d brought for circumstances exactly like this—a hoard of guards storm the room. 

He’s match for four of them, maybe, and Dream raises his sword, too—together, they could easily take ten, give or take the skills of Dream’s friends. But, as the guards leak into the room, the owner sneers, “Don’t bother. I have more than a hundred on sight, and another hundred at my call.” He sinks back into his desk chair. “Still a shame to see you go, Blade.”

“This isn’t over, Schlatt,” Dream snarls, and Techno recognizes that name somehow, but it’s a piece of knowledge buried under the all-encompassing rage, so he cannot access it. 

They are pushed from the room. 

Techno shoves the guards’ hands away. Wilbur and his apparent charge trail behind him. In front of them, Dream’s head-banded friend punches a guard in the face and earns a vicious shove—he stumbles to the ground. His accented friend snaps a rebuke, hauls him off the ground, and strides with his head held high, like all of the going-ons are below him, like he couldn’t care less about any of it.

They are forced through a back exit that pours into a dark, dank, deserted alleyway. They walk some way before the guards turn back into the club.

The silence rings. 

Techno paces back and forth, pushing his hands through his hair, not once lifting his eyes. Dream mutters to Wilbur that he’ll “be in contact”—which Techno can’t even _begin_ to comprehend—and he and his friends slip into the night.

With them gone, Techno rips off his mask. He can barely make out Wilbur’s face in the shadows, and he can’t make anything out of the child still hiding behind him, but he spins to face Wilbur anyway. “What just happened?” he demands.

“I knew it,” Wilbur says.

“Knew _what?”_

“This whole time, I listened to what I needed to hear,” Wilbur says, words spilling from his mouth like a broken dam. “Not what they wanted me to hear. I saw what I needed to, because I looked past what they wanted me to. Don’t you understand? It’s just like you told me.”

“If you don’t explain—”

“That was _Schlatt_ in there,” Wilbur discloses. “ _Schlatt._ The _king_ of the SMP. The awful king—the _dictator_ of the SMP—the—”

“I don’t care about your _politics!”_ Techno shouts.

Wilbur recoils. “Why are you—you can’t possibly be angry with _me_.”

Techno rips his hands through his hair. “Why were you with Dream?” he demands. “What even—what _happened?_ We can’t _fight_ there anymore, and…why the _hell_ were you with Dream?”

“You wouldn’t listen,” Wilbur snaps. “I tried to talk to you, and you didn’t listen. You were so blinded with your _success_ that you missed every clue. I wrote down everything. I thought Schlatt was running the club from the beginning—the horns covering the walls weren’t exactly _subtle_ —and I followed Dream because I knew he’d help me.” 

“Help you, what, exactly?” Techno demands, feeling betrayed despite the ringing truth of each of Wilbur’s accusations.

“Expose him, obviously. He was honing fighters to best suit him—almost like natural selection, but forced—and, once they excelled, he bribed and recruited them to fight for him. He’s been doing it for years. I _saw_ him watch you—”

“Slow down,” Techno says sharply, trying to wrap his mind around the flood of information. “Slow down.”

Wilbur does not. “—with the same goal: using you. Rumor says that the Crown Prince has emerged after all these years to claim for the throne. Schlatt is readying for _war,_ and he has been this entire time—”

Techno clenches his fists. He is too busy keeping himself upright under the burden of this new knowledge to stop the fury from dripping into his voice. “What—how could—why didn’t you _tell_ me any of this?” he demands. “If it was that important to you—if it's _this_ important—you should have _told_ me!”

“I _tried,_ Technoblade!” Wilbur yells, eyes flashing. He steps forward, out of the comprehensive shadows, and Techno—blinks. He blinks again, and again, and stares at Wilbur’s cheek. “Multiple times! You _didn’t listen_.”

All thoughts of the argument fly from his head. He stares at Wilbur’s cheek, and Wilbur hauls in breath after breath, and Techno stares, and he stares, and he knows what is going to happen before it does, because the discs on Wilbur’s cheek are scarlet red.

_Scarlet red._

The knowledge does not make him anymore prepared.

The child— _child_ , is he still a child?—behind Wilbur steps out of the shadows to gape.

Techno stays completely still.

It is not like this, in his dreams. It is like this in his nightmares, maybe—with Tommy cut and bleeding and bruised and bone-thin—but it is not like this in his dreams. 

It is a dream, but it isn’t, really, and it is a nightmare, but it isn’t, really.

Recent events have left him utterly confused. Ever since the tournament, everything has been so tense and high-strung; everything has moved so quickly. He knows he must get a full explanation from Wilbur, and that he must _give_ a full apology _to_ Wilbur—and Phil, too, likely; he's been rude to both of them—but none of that registers now, for all but one thought leaves his mind. It’s the thought that has camped in the back of his mind all these years—waiting, waiting to reemerge in the light, because he never lost faith, never lost hope despite the universe’s hatred for him, despite every whisper of his rationale that told him it was improbable, it was impossible. 

Now it has paid off. 

His mind is a blank canvas, and all that is painted on it over and over and over is _Tommy Tommy Tommy Tommy,_ because Tommy is bleeding freely from his head and clutching his abdomen and fully blanched and clearly in so much pain, but he is _alive_ , and he is _here,_ and he is—he is—

“Techno?” Tommy whispers, hardly audible.

— _perfect_.

“Tommy,” Techno says—softly, like it’s the holiest of words, like this is the pinnacle of his existence and he must stay quiet out of respect. His eyes are wide; his face is drawn in acute shock, because all he has ever wanted is standing in front of him, and it can’t be real, but it is, it is, because—“It’s—it’s you.”

Tommy does not hesitate. He disregards the certain pain running inflicts, and hurtles himself at Techno.

“Tommy,” Techno repeats, speechless and incredulous, and his arms move like twin snails wrapping around Tommy’s thin form, because it’s real, this isn’t a dream, this is _real_ , Tommy’s _here_ —

“You found me,” Tommy whispers. There are tears on his face. There might be tears on Techno’s, too—he cannot tell; he is numb. “You _found_ me.”

Tommy grips him so tightly that, if his arms had even a single shred of muscle or fat, Techno would surely suffocate. 

Techno tightens his own grip. He ducks his head into Tommy’s shoulder—he has grown; they are nearly the same height, now—and squeezes his eyes shut.

“I would have searched forever,” Techno whispers, words wet with tears.

Tommy sobs. Techno holds him closer.

He vows, then and there, to never let him go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About time!
> 
> I've been anxious to write this scene for awhile, so I really hope you liked the way it turned out! If you did, I'd love if you could let me know! Any feedback means the world to me. Thank you so much for reading! <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your feedback last chapter! You guys are the best! <33
> 
> This chapter is basically a continuation of last chapter...like a part 2 to it. There will be a part 3 next chapter, too, so last chapter, this chapter, and next chapter (chps 12, 13, and 14) can essentially be read as one long chapter. This is because the plot slows significantly down, and angst / comfort / fluff jumps up. Couldn't help myself, hahah.
> 
> Really hope you enjoy! :D
> 
> tw // various injuries mentioned, panic attack

He lets Tommy go.

He pulls back gently, slowly, just so he can look in Tommy’s face. Just so he can memorize every feature—every freckle, every highlight, every crease.

He regrets it almost immediately.

He stares at Tommy and all he sees is pain. _Pain_. Years and years of lonely, broken pain, and Tommy is crying because they are together, finally, but Techno is crying because they’ve been apart for so, so long, and because there is pain in Tommy’s eyes, and because there is blood pouring out of Tommy’s forehead. It’s drenched them both, now—warm, sticky liquid pastes his shirt to his chest. 

Scars, scratches, gashes, and burns mar Tommy’s pale face. Techno recognizes some of them from the black discs he’s seen on Wilbur and Phil’s skin. Up and down his cheeks, streaking toward his hairline, peeling back toward where his jaw meets his ear.

Written there, on his face, is enough pain for one lifetime, but this is only a _page_ of it. There are surely books and books of pain stretching all over his body, spanning all of the years he was alone with that monster. It’s plain in Tommy’s eyes—haunted, wary, shadowed, even as the leaking tears scream joy and gratitude and relief.

It makes him furious. 

And he has never been the best at ignoring his anger, has he? He can control it to a point, but when the time comes for a fight, his focus is all but impossible to redirect. His thoughts are tunneled to his target, and his target only. Everything— _everything,_ even the most important things in his life—is forgotten.

When he wants a fight, he gets one. 

He wants a fight now. 

His breaths sharpen, shorten, and his eyes haze with scarlet fury— _scarlet, scarlet discs, everywhere, everywhere_ —and his hands are shaking, shaking, and his mind sees one thing and one thing only. 

Schlatt. Dead. Over and over and over. A knife in his throat. A sword in his chest. A fist, a slap, a whip, a lit cigarette—punching him, hitting him, lashing him, burning him. Over and over and over.

In one movement, he’s spun abruptly away from Tommy, pulled his sword from its sheathe, and strode three steps away.

Nothing, _nothing_ will stop him. This is what he’s dreamed about for months, for _years_ , and nothing will stop him.

Something does.

_Someone_ does.

“ _Techno_ ,” Tommy whispers. 

Techno hesitates, stills, and turns around, because, at that voice, he will always turn around.

Tommy has curled in on himself. His arms are stuck in the ghost of Techno’s embrace. His eyes are wide and terrified and he looks _vulnerable_ , and that shouldn’t ever be an adjective where Tommy is concerned, because it’s _Tommy_ , and—

“Don’t leave,” Tommy whispers. “Please, _please_ don’t leave.”

He wants, more than anything, to kill Schlatt, but he _needs,_ more than anything, to comfort Tommy. To protect Tommy.

His fury sweeps away.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He slips his sword back into its sheathe. “Okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy stares at him with eyes wide beneath furrowed eyebrows. He hugs himself tighter, and Techno realizes that it’s more than just superficial comfort. He’s cold.

Techno doesn’t have a coat, but it doesn’t matter, because Wilbur realizes, too. He pulls his coat off and steps out of the shadows. 

Concern has dampened Wilbur’s incredulity. It peeks through, still, since Techno’s learned to read him so well, but the concern is prominent—pinching his forehead, lowering his eyebrows, pursing his lips.

Tommy’s gaze flicks to Wilbur and sticks. He sees the coat, first, but seconds later notices the discs on Wilbur’s face. His eyes widen. 

_This is Wilbur_ , Techno should say. _This is Wilbur, our soulmate, and he already knows who you are, because I never stopped thinking about you._

“Here,” Wilbur says quietly, beating him to it, eyes flicking over Tommy’s face and nowhere else. “It’s not the warmest, but it’s warmer than nothing.”

Tommy blinks owlishly, first at the coat, then at Wilbur. 

He doesn’t look like moving anytime soon, so Techno steps toward him, leans to grab the coat from Wilbur, and wraps it around Tommy’s shoulders. 

“Ender,” Techno mutters. “You’re frozen.”

Tommy pushes a shaky hand through his hair. It comes back covered in blood. He doesn’t give it a second thought—which is a fact too horrible to acknowledge—just rubs it away on his t-shirt. “It’s not that cold,” he mumbles. He glances up at Techno—whose dry doubt is plain on his face—bites his lip, and glances at Wilbur. “I…uh.” He drops his eyes to the ground. “Thanks. For…you know.”

“Of course,” Wilbur says.

Tommy shakes his head, winces at the pain, closes his eyes briefly, and blinks them back open. “Not for—I mean, thank you for the coat, but also…thanks. For—”

“No need,” Wilbur says softly. “I’m lucky to have been there.”

Tommy nods, and the conversation slices off. 

Techno looks at Wilbur over Tommy’s head, and sees fear and warning in Wilbur’s eyes— _Wait. Stay. We’ll talk later, I’ll tell you later, we’ll find Schlatt later—I promise. This is more important_. 

Techno nods. He turns to Tommy, but he doesn’t even know where to start. They must get home, surely, but can Tommy even walk? Blood is _everywhere_ , and he is shaking with the cold, and—

His increasing concern must be obvious, because Tommy says, “I’m okay, Techno.”

Techno’s scoff is more an exhalation of fear than anything else. “Right,” he mutters, and remembers Phil’s words from before: _I don’t think he knows what okay means anymore_.

“We should go,” Wilbur murmurs.

“We’ve got to close that cut, at least,” Techno says, gesturing vaguely to Tommy’s forehead. “Before we go.”

Tommy swallows, but doesn’t take his eyes off of Techno’s face. “It’s not that bad,” he says.

Techno stares at him blankly. Wilbur’s eyes drop to the ground.

“I can walk, at least,” Tommy says. “It’s on my head, not my legs.”

“That’s _worse_ ,” Techno says.

“I can walk,” Tommy repeats.

Techno purses his lips. “It’s a long walk,” he says.

Tommy’s expression doesn’t change.

And that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Tommy nods, says “I’m okay,” and pulls the coat tighter around him. He’s the same, but he is so, so different, because Techno is supposed to say _It’s a long walk_ , and Tommy’s forehead is supposed to scrunch and his head is supposed to tilt in confusion and he is supposed demand to know _Why? Why? Why?_ until Techno rolled his eyes and said _You’re so annoying_ , and Tommy wouldn’t be deterred, but would push with more vehemence in asking: _Where are we going?_

Techno is supposed to say _Home_.

Instead, he says nothing. They start walking and walk until Tommy can’t. He and Wilbur duck under either side of Tommy’s arms to support him. They stop to rest when that’s too much, and when they resume and the rest isn’t enough, Techno hauls him into his arms. 

If Tommy’s embarrassed, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He rests his head on his Techno’s chest. Blood sinks under his shirt.

Techno holds him tighter.

///

They walk for almost five hours.

It’s half an hour jog. It’s a two hour walk, usually—but half of the time Tommy limps, and the other half he’s in Techno’s ever-weakening arms, so their pace is understandably slowed. 

They’d quickly noticed that, despite Tommy’s gratitude to Wilbur for whatever Wilbur had done for him inside of Schlatt’s office—Techno still doesn’t know—he is uncomfortable in Wilbur’s immediate proximity. He didn’t say as much; at least, not in words—he’d scrunched close to Techno and carefully guarded his expression. Wilbur hadn’t taken offense in the least, which both Techno and Tommy were infinitely grateful for. He took a few steps away and left Techno to carry the brunt of Tommy’s weight.

Still, Tommy insists he can walk the final leg of the trip. Techno lets him, if only because he really isn’t walking on his own at all. His face is whiter than the snow, the salt that covered midnight tables in Techno’s childhood. Earlier, Techno had ripped off one of his own sleeves to wrap around Tommy’s head, so the bleeding had abated, but the dried scarlet only emphasizes his pallor. 

It’s with the starkest relief, then, that they stumble into camp.

Tommy recognizes it immediately. Between sharp, shallow breaths, he whispers, “It looks the same.”

Techno smiles and readjusts his grip, hauling Tommy’s arm tighter around his shoulder. “Is that a good thing?” he asks.

Tommy nods. 

There’s a homey fire lit, and the smell of cooking pork, and he can almost _feel_ the memory—stabbing slices of raw meat with sticks, holding them up to the flames, trying to comprehend Tommy’s mindless chatter, laughing as Tommy’s burnt to a crisp because he hadn’t been paying enough attention. 

Wilbur splits off immediately in search of Phil’s medical supplies. He and Tommy have almost reached the log beside the fire when a branch cracks, and Tommy freezes. _Freezes,_ freezes—in absolute, all-consuming fear.

“You’re both here, yeah?” Phil asks, footsteps approaching. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “You’ve been gone for hours. You better’ve made up by now. If you’re still fighting, I’ll—”

“It’s okay,” Techno murmurs, tuning Phil out, turning to look at Tommy. He squeezes his shoulder. “It’s just Phil. I’ve been staying with him ever since I found you.”

Tommy’s eyes are wide, fearful, loyal. “You trust him?” he whispers.

“With my life,” Techno says.

Immediately, Tommy nods, relaxes.

Techno turns back to face their path—they’re mere steps away from the log—and finds Phil standing feet away from them, staring at Tommy with horror stitched into his bright, kind eyes. As soon as Tommy’s also turned to face him, though, the horror vanishes. “You must be Tommy,” he says gently, smiling. “Welcome home.”

_Home_.

Tommy looks at Techno. Techno nods. 

_Home_.

Techno sees it in his eyes, and feels it in his own. The desperate, overwhelming desire for this to be _real;_ the dominating fear that it _isn’t_ , that they’ll wake up in separate places, leading separate lives, bound together only by ink on skin and stars in a universe too big, too cruel to keep them together. 

But this is _home_.

And it’s not, exactly—this is camp; Phil’s home is a long walk away—but it _is_ , because they’re together, and that has always been where his home is. His home has always been Wilbur. His home has always been Phil. His home has always been Tommy.

Before Tommy can manage a coherent response, his eyelids drop, and he sways where he stands. 

“Tommy?” Techno asks. He tightens his grip. Fear shoots down his chest. “Uh, Phil?”

“I’m okay,” Tommy says faintly, squeezing his eyes shut, leaning fully into Techno.

“Oh, wonderful,” Phil mutters, moving toward them both. “He’s a liar like you, Techno.” 

“I’m okay,” Tommy repeats. 

Phil clicks his tongue against his teeth. He reaches them, gently frames Tommy’s face in his hands, and rakes his eyes over Tommy’s head wound. After a tense moment, he hisses under his breath. “What’ve you done here, Tech?” 

Techno winces. “That bad?”

“It’s…well.” Phil sighs. “You tried. That’s plenty from you, though. I’ll take him from here.”

“He doesn’t like to—”

Phil looks at him flatly, gaze sincere, but firm. “He’s unconscious, Techno, and if I don’t get his fever down, he’s not going to wake up. Give him to me.”

Immediately, Techno does. 

Phil carries Tommy’s limp body toward the fire. He snaps at Techno to get the supplies from Wilbur, to get a cold washcloth, and to get the jars of elder flower and yarrow from his backpack.

Once he’s gotten everything he needs, he bends over Tommy’s head and carefully stitches the wound shut. No painkiller is needed, because Tommy doesn’t so much as flinch. He is _out_ , out—the scary kind of out, the one that compels Techno to stare until his eyes are dry, that compels Wilbur to wrap his arm around Techno’s shoulder and whisper that _it’s all right, Phil knows what he’s doing, he’ll be all right._

But _We can’t know that, can we?_

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t want to tempt the universe.

As the process progresses, though, Phil doesn’t seem overly concerned. At one point, Tommy convulses for the most brutal quarter minute of Techno’s life, but Phil hardly flinches. He wraps Tommy’s body in blankets and spoons the herbal mixture into his mouth and dips the cloth onto his forehead and closes every wound that needs stitching and bandages everything else.

Just after midnight, he slides Tommy’s left sleeve up. It is blistered and blackened with burns.

Techno stares, and he stares, and he stares, because _He’ll get mad if he finds out about them. He’ll burn them off._

He burned them off. 

Techno rips from Wilbur’s hold and scrambles to crouch at Phil’s side. 

“ _Careful_ , Techno,” Phil chides, but his heart isn’t in it, because a breath later he whispers, “How in Ender’s name—”

“He burned them off,” Techno whispers, words hardly audible over his heartbeat. 

“Make _sense_ , for once in your damn life—”

“It was my—” His mouth is too dry. He swallows. “It was my arm,” he says. “It was hurt for so long, Schlatt must have—I mean he _did,_ clearly. He saw, and he…he…”

Wilbur walks up behind Techno, exhales sharply in horror, and places a bracing hand on Techno’s shoulder.

It slaps Techno back into reality. “Fix it!” he hisses, turning to Phil. “Use the—use _something_. Please. Can’t you—can’t you _please?”_

“Yes,” Phil says, looking at him calmly, imploringly. “I need aloe. It’s not too far. You’ll find it down the creek, to the left, and near the second cleft in the ground. Understand?”

Techno stands, turns, and, despite his exhaustion, runs. 

Wilbur joins him.

They try not to talk, and they succeed; they try not to think, and they fail. Time passes fast, though, for by the time they’ve returned, Phil has almost entirely cleaned Tommy up. Every last major gash has been stitched. His clothes have been changed. He is shaking, still; unconscious, still; but a feverish flush has replaced his pallor, and Techno has never loved the color red so much.

“Quietly,” Phil warns in a whisper, as he brushes a sweaty hair out of Tommy’s face. He only hears them approach; he never lifts his eyes from Tommy. “He’s asleep.”

“Asleep?” Techno asks. “That’s—that’s good, right?”

“Very,” Phil says, nodding. “He’s stable. As far as I can tell, it wasn’t ever a life-threatening concern. Not at all. Just exhaustion, and…well.”

“The beatings,” Wilbur says bluntly.

Techno’s eyes dart to him. He’s been almost entirely silent all night, save little comments pointing Phil to the supplies he needed, or pointing Techno toward another aloe branch.

_The beatings_.

Wilbur knows. So, _so_ much. He was there; he knows everything.

“I assumed,” Phil mutters. “As soon as his sleep is deeper, you’re sharing every detail, bar none.”

Wilbur was there. He knows everything about what happened.

He knows something else, too. 

He looks at Techno, and Techno looks at him, and he knows what happened, and Techno doesn’t, but they both know one thing.

Schlatt must die.

“We’re going back to the SMP,” Wilbur tells Phil, and Techno thinks of the pain, the ghosts, the demons in Tommy’s eyes; the stitches and slices and burns on his skin. “Tonight.”

Phil does not look surprised. Indeed, as he stands up, he looks proud. “Good,” he says. “You’re saving me a trip.”

“We’re going to kill him,” Wilbur says.

“Good,” Phil repeats. “Someone has to.”

Wilbur nods. 

"I'll watch him," Phil says, glancing at Tommy, answering the question Techno hadn't yet had chance to ask.

Techno nods, too, and, without another word, he and Wilbur turn to leave.

“Be careful,” Phil calls, right before they’re out of earshot—like he’d been debating whether or not to say anything at all. “Watch each other, yeah? We’re finally all together, and I don’t want—I can’t lose either of you.”

Techno bows his head, Wilbur calls back, “We will be,” and, despite their exhaustion, they run.

///

The indigo door is not propped open.

It might’ve been a sign, had either of them been paying attention. Anger blinds them, though, so they slam through it without a second thought. It splinters and breaks under the force of their assault. They rush into the empty room.

That might’ve been a sign, too—the club may not have always met full capacity, but it’s never, ever been _empty_ —but the angry haze shows no indication of letting up. So, without a second thought, they sprint through the hallways, shove Schlatt’s door open. 

They find to their complete and utter shock, fury—which might’ve been avoided had they given attention to the signs—no one.

_No one._

They realize, now, the emptiness. The closed indigo door. And, after a moment of reflection—neither of them are surprised at all. Imagining _King_ _Schlatt_ of the _SMP_ stupid enough to stick around after being exposed is all forms of ridiculous. Every ounce of reason screams that they missed the obvious, that they should have expected this—expected _nothing_ —because they should have, because they should have seen the signs, because of _course_ Schlatt wouldn’t be here. 

That doesn’t make it any easier to walk out the door empty handed. 

///

He _can’t_.

The burden, the pressure, the weight of their future, of what lies before them, is all too much. _Too much._ Each step they take toward camp adds an anvil to his shoulders, and a mountain is awaiting him. He is Atlas, and he is holding up the world, but it is slipping steadily from his grip, and it will collapse— _collapse_ —it is inevitable—and when it does, all of them will be crushed.

He can’t hold it any longer. He _can’t._ He is not strong enough. He is not good enough. He is not enough. 

His vision blurs. His breath speeds and speeds until he is gasping for air—he is underwater, drowning, drowning, and he must surface, because he must help Tommy to shore, because he cannot leave Tommy to sink. His gait falters. He stumbles into a tree. He braces himself against it with a forearm. 

Wilbur’s voice is frantic, but faint. He can barely hear it. The water is closing around him, and it is white like snow, like salt, and it is red like blood, like discs, and he is drowning in it.

“Hey,” Wilbur says from above the water, crouching in front of him, holding his shoulders. “Techno. Stay with me, yeah? I’m right here. You’re all right. Tommy’s okay. Everyone’s okay. I’m right here.”

The world slips through his fingers. 

“I—can’t,” he says through heavy breaths. His eyes are wide and he feels like a child again, helpless and weak and so, so alone. The water swallows him, the terror consumes him, and Wilbur is right in front of him but he is legions away, because Techno’s being buried alive in an ocean grave, and the world is collapsing on top of him. “I can’t—can’t—”

“Breathe,” Wilbur says, moving his hands to frame Techno’s face. “Just breathe, all right? I used to get these all the time. It’s going to pass. I promise.”

The water drips down his forehead, drips down his cheeks, and it’s not water anymore, but _blood_. He’s swimming in an ocean of blood, and he coughs because it’s spilling into his lungs, and Wilbur’s saying _breathe, breathe,_ but he can’t—he _can’t_ —

“Look at me, Technoblade,” Wilbur says, voice calm, but imploring. “Look at me.”

The blood is ubiquitous, so he doesn’t know how he manages to, but he _does_ —he looks. 

Wilbur smiles wetly. There is water on his face, too. “Good,” he says, annunciation careful, purposeful. “So good. I’m Wilbur, right? You know that. My favorite color is blue, but I like orange and yellow, too, because I like the sun. Your favorite color is pink. You dyed your hair pink, remember?” Wilbur gently grabs his braid and pulls it forward; holds it up so Techno can look at it. “See?”

Techno still chokes in breath after breath, but he looks, because it’s _Wilbur_ , and he doesn’t ever want to let Wilbur down.

“I remember the first time I saw you dyeing it,” Wilbur continues, and grabs a branch from off of the ground. He pushes it into Techno’s grip. Techno fists his hand around it. It is a buoy, a tether—it anchors him to Wilbur’s voice. “It was back when Phil still paid me. It was boiling hot. The sun was bright, like it will be tomorrow. I was trying to find a place to read, when I saw you.” He wraps his hand around Techno’s clenched fist. “I stepped on this, remember? That’s how you knew I was there.”

Wilbur’s words bring the memory to life. He feels the sun beating down on his skin, the pink flowers grounding into powdery dust beneath the rock in his hand. He hears the _crack_ that made his head shoot up. He sees Wilbur a few steps away, hugging a book to his chest, smiling hesitantly.

Blink by blink, Techno’s vision clears. His breaths relax. Wilbur’s voice urges him to stay, to swim, to fight back to shore. 

“I was surprised,” Wilbur goes on, squeezing Techno’s hand encouragingly. “Pink was so normal for you; I’d never considered that it wasn’t natural. Which is ridiculous, I know, but it’s true. I still can’t imagine it any other way.”

The burning in his lungs abates. He takes a shaky, stuttering breath, and nothing stops him—every last ounce of water has drained away. He is sitting in a forest, instead, and his hands are stained pink, and Wilbur is holding a book, and it’s peaceful; it’s okay. 

It’s okay. He’s okay. 

“Breathe,” Wilbur says anyway, so he does. He draws his knees to his chest, covers his face with his hands to wipe the tears there, and breathes. 

A few minutes pass before Wilbur whispers, “Better?”

Instead of answering, Techno mutters, “Sorry.”

Wilbur moves to sit beside him. Their backs lean against the tree trunk. “Don’t be,” Wilbur says quietly. 

A flush rises on Techno’s face. “I didn’t—I don’t know what happened.”

“A _lot_ has happened,” Wilbur replies. “Your mind couldn’t keep up, so it shut your body down. It’s happened to me before, too. It’s…scary.”

Techno drops his face into his hands again. He takes a deep breath, because sharing is a different type of struggle, and he must brace himself to do it. “I just—Tommy’s here. _Tommy_. I’ve been looking since…I don’t even know. So, so long. And now he’s _here_ , but he’s—he’s—”

“Hurt,” Wilbur supplies.

“No,” Techno says, shaking his head. “Well, _yes_ , obviously, but it’s more than that. It’s—it’s in his eyes. I don’t even want to know what Schlatt put him through. And now Schlatt’s gone, and I don’t—I don’t know how to fix it.” He looks up, like he’ll find the answer in Wilbur’s eyes. “I don’t know how to fix any of it.”

Wilbur’s lips pinch in thought. He considers his words for a long moment, and Techno is almost ready to abandon hope for any answer at all when Wilbur murmurs, “He doesn’t want you to fix him.”

Techno blinks. “What?”

“He doesn’t want you to fix him,” he repeats softly, turning his head just enough to meet Techno’s eyes. “He just…wants you to be there.”

Techno furrows his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

Wilbur drops his eyes.“Because I was hurt, too, when I found you, but I never wanted you to fix me. I just wanted you to be there. You and Phil.”

Techno stares at him. “Were we?” he whispers.

“ _Yes_ ,” Wilbur says, leaning his cheek onto the top of Techno’s head. “Because you're a good _person,_ Technoblade. And it won’t be easy, because it never is, but I know—I _know_ —that you’ll be there for him, too. No matter what. He’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Techno squeezes his eyes shut. “You can’t promise that.”

“Of course I can,” Wilbur says. “I can promise anything that’s true.”

The world is lifted from his shoulders, and, with a huff of relief, he slumps into Wilbur’s ready embrace. “In case you forgot,” Techno mutters, “he’s currently unconscious.”

Wilbur senses the change in the air and says, “Phil probably drugged him up.”

Techno snorts at the image. “Sleep with one eye open,” he says.

“He’d target you first,” Wilbur says. “You’re the threat.”

“You could win a fight if your opponent was unarmed,” Techno says generously.

Techno can hear Wilbur’s eye roll in his voice. “If it saves me from getting drugged, I’m plenty content with inferiority.”

Techno smiles.

They can’t sit long, he knows—he doesn’t want to, anyway; he wants to get back to Tommy—and they still have so much to discuss, but he can’t find it in him to break the moment, and Wilbur doesn’t push him to move. The calm that’s come over him was unimaginable during the storm, but, sitting with Wilbur under this oak tree, he can hardly remember the waters at all. He is okay. Tommy is okay. Tommy is _home_. They have a long way to go, but they are together, so they are going to be okay.

They are going to be okay.

And _this_ is what “okay” must mean. Scared, but grateful; furious, but relieved; hurt, but loved.

_Loved._

“Thank you, Wilbur,” Techno murmurs.

“Of course, Technoblade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment--they make my day! Until next time :D


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continual support--comments, kudos, bookmarks, everything! You're all the best! 
> 
> Ahhh, so much for more frequent updates, smh. This conversation's been awhile coming, though, so I hope you enjoy it! It should clear up some plot questions that people have had for awhile.
> 
> Next chapter, time will resume passing like it has in chapters past. This is the end of that three chapter "reunion" segment (12, 13, 14). I so hope you like it! :D

Phil is watching Tommy.

Techno knew he would be. Not just because he’d promised he would, but because it’s Phil—the same Phil that lifted a dying piglet off the ground, that set Techno’s arm and took him in, that paid Wilbur until he was comfortable enough to stay with them unprompted. 

They approach the campfire quietly, careful not to step on anything loud. Tommy is curled up by the flames, and, if Techno wills it hard enough, he can pretend it’s just like it used to be, only now with Phil and Wilbur.

The idea is nice.

He clings to it as they settle onto the log beside Phil. Phil glances at them once, briefly, and says, looking back to Tommy, “Didn’t wake up once.”

Techno exhales his relief. “No nightmares or anything?”

“Not as far as I could tell. He has a history with them, I assume?”

“Yeah,” Techno mutters. “And that was before the…before.”

Phil hums. Wilbur leans his head on Techno’s shoulder. 

They sit and sit and stare and stare. Phil talks sometimes, commenting randomly about how Tommy’s injuries are faring, or how the weather’s been favorable to his fever, or how he’d probably be in and out of sleep for at least another dozen hours.

Techno knows what he’s doing. They all do. Phil, too, and certainly Wilbur, because as Phil talks, Wilbur sighs, too soft for Phil to hear, but clear enough for Techno to understand that he understands.

Conversation is inevitable. They are delaying it.

And Phil is the most patient person he’s ever known, but even he can only delay so long. So when they’ve watched Tommy for long enough to know that he’s nowhere close to waking up, Phil gestures them away. 

Techno doesn’t move more than a few feet away, even when Phil whispers that _He’ll be fine,_ and that _We don’t want to risk waking him up._

But Phil doesn’t know. Phil doesn’t know that it was Tommy’s _birthday_ , and that he’d wanted to make him a present, so he’d left—he’d _left_ —and he’d thought _He’ll be fine. He’s been left alone before._ , so he’d gone and forged the very sword that Phil uses now, and he’d hauled it back to camp smiling so, so hugely, because he’d never given anyone a gift before, but it was Tommy’s birthday, and he was going to give him something he would _love_.

He never got the chance.

And Phil doesn’t know, but Phil looks up at him, and he understands. He glances at Tommy, back at Techno, nods, and says, “Just a few steps.”

Techno complies, but keeps Tommy in his eye-line. He faces Tommy as they lower down onto a circle of stumps—one of the reasons he’d originally chosen to camp here—and as Phil heaves a weighty sigh. 

“Where do I even start?” Phil mutters.

Techno doesn’t respond. Wilbur shrugs and looks down at the palms of his hands.

“You left in a fight with each other,” Phil continues, sounding infinitely confused, but far too unsurprised, “and you came back with a child.”

Again, they say nothing. 

“Care to explain?” Phil prompts.

“I barely know more than you,” Techno says. “All I know is I went to the club and found Wilbur yelling at the owner. The owner, who, as it turns out, is King Schlatt—”

_“What?”_

“Yeah,” Techno mutters. “I know.”

“Of the SMP?” Phil demands, incredulous.

“Of the SMP,” Techno confirms. He hesitates. “And…he, uh—”

He can’t find the words, and Phil can’t hear his unspoken admission, so Wilbur saves him. “He had Tommy.”

Techno nods.

Phil’s jaw drops. “How did he—”

“I don’t know,” Techno cuts in. “I don’t know anything. We need to…well, I’m not sure if we should even ask Tommy about it. It’s probably…”

“Sensitive,” Wilbur finishes, again finding words where he cannot. 

He nods again, this time in thanks. 

“Ender,” Phil whispers, blanching. “The King?”

“It makes sense, now,” Techno says, remembering Tommy’s words from years ago. _The war part of the SMP sucks. So does…so does the…so does_ he _. I don’t…I mean, I don’t really, uh. You know. Like him. That much._ “I should have seen it earlier.”

“The castle’s in the middle of the SMP,” Phil says, putting together the pieces that Techno had long sorted himself. “Right in the middle.”

Techno swallows, flicking his eyes back to Tommy. “Yeah.”

“Ender damn it all,” Phil murmurs. “I don’t—I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s all right,” Wilbur says, sitting up straighter. “I’ve enough to say for the three of us.”

Phil furrows his eyebrows. “I’d hope so,” he says. “Why were you—how’d you get there in the first place?”

“It’s quite the story,” Wilbur says.

“We’ve quite the time,” Phil says. 

“All right, then,” Wilbur says, and takes a deep, bracing breath. “The first time I went to watch Technoblade fight, I overheard someone discussing a bet. It wasn’t anything unusual until they moved on from the bets and started speaking about how the club had the means to fund the winners. They didn’t give me anything specific, but I was curious. So I started looking into it.”

“You bought a notebook, first,” Techno adds.

Wilbur glances at him. “Yeah,” he says. “I, uh. I started bringing a notebook to the fights with me. I didn’t want to forget anything.”

“That’s why you came to every fight,” Techno says, snorting bitterly. “I always wondered why you did, you know. It didn’t seem like your scene.”

“Technoblade,” Wilbur says flatly. “You know that’s not true.”

Techno shrugs, not taking his eyes off Tommy. “It’s fine. I understand.”

“I never missed a single one of your fights,” Wilbur says. He turns to Phil, explaining, “I always watched him. I searched before and after, but I never—I didn’t ever search _during_ them. It’s why we sometimes came home late. Because I’d stay late searching, and then we’d go looking ‘round the SMP for Tommy. It was never Techno’s fault.”

Phil accepts all this with a nod. He shoots Techno a pointed glance.

“That makes sense,” Techno admits, surrendering. “I misunderstood.” 

Wilbur slumps in relief. “Anyway. After searching awhile—like, six months or so—I finally found the source. The club was siphoning money in from the _castle_. More specifically, from the bank that collected and stored all of the citizen’s taxes.” He pauses, looking at them imploringly. “Somehow, the club was linked to the nation’s most secure bank. The one in the castle; the one that few people have access to. Yet all of their money— _our_ money…well, not ours, technically, since we don’t live in the SMP, but you get what I’m saying—was going toward paying these fighters. They were stealing from SMP citizens.”

“How did you—how’d you even make that connection?” Phil asks, incredulous.

“A lot of looking.”

“You’re incredible,” Phil says. 

Wilbur flushes. “No, I was just…anyway.” He clears his throat to clear the burden of the compliment. Techno can tell—he’s seen him do it many times. “Further searching showed that they were hiding it in various businesses around the SMP. I concluded that someone with a lot of power had to be behind it all—there was no way any layperson could access it, like I said. And…you guys didn’t grow up in the SMP under Schlatt’s reign, but I did. During the first war, after the younger prince was kidnapped and the Crown Prince went into hiding, Schlatt’s symbol was a set of dark horns. Once he was in power, he plastered them up all over the country.”

“Horns,” Techno echoes, looking at Wilbur with wide eyes. “There were horns—”

Wilbur nods. “Everywhere.”

“In the fight club,” Techno says, turning to Phil. “Pictures of horns were all over the walls. I don’t know if you noticed them, but I—I was always confused why they were there.”

“Yeah, well,” Wilbur says. “I put the pieces together, but it was…I mean, it was frankly unbelievable. As bad a guy as I knew Schlatt to be, I couldn’t imagine why he’d spend so much money running a fight club. But the evidence was too strong, so, about a year after I started coming, I was certain it was Schlatt.”

Phil exhales sharply, lowering his head to catch it in his hand. “What the hell,” he says. He rubs his fingers against his forehead. “What the hell.”

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Wilbur says after a heavy moment, wincing. “One night I, uh. Broke into his office.”

Neither Techno nor Phil flinch. “That’s when you saw the bottles,” Techno guesses.

Wilbur nods, relieved by their lack of reaction. “And the bloodstains. This was a couple months later. I just wanted to…y’know. Confirm it was him. I was going to stop searching after I knew for sure. And it turned out I was _right_ , but…”

“You didn’t stop searching,” Techno finishes. 

“No,” Wilbur says. “Not after seeing the glass and blood. There was something worse going on. I couldn’t just stop looking. I—”

“Wait,” Phil says, holding up a hand. “Just—hold on a mo’. Why were you…” He turns to Techno. “Did you know about all of this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Techno flushes, swallows his pride, and says, “He tried to tell me.”

Phil raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t listen,” Techno mutters.

Phil blinks.

“It’s all right,” Wilbur—ever the appeaser—cuts in, relieving the tension. “I found another solution.”

Techno scowls, glancing up sharply. “Dream isn’t a _solution_. You should’ve yelled at me until I understood.”

“Dream?” Phil echoes. “What’s any of this got to do with Dream?”

“Well, I…” Wilbur clears his throat again. “Like Techno said, I tried to tell him a couple times, but he wasn’t—and I don’t blame him, of course; the club was like his second home—he wasn’t ready to believe it at the time. And I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do, but, as time passed, it all weighed heavier and heavier on my mind, so I knew I needed to do _something_. I couldn’t just sit around waiting for it to fix itself.”

“What are you—you mean exposing Schlatt?” Phil asks. 

“Sort of,” Wilbur says. “More like exposing all of it. A few months ago, I found, too, proof that many of Schlatt’s best champions worked for him in the castle. In fighting positions. It almost seemed like he was readying an army. It almost seemed like he thought war was coming.”

“I never would have fallen for that,” Techno snaps.

“I know,” Wilbur says easily. “You aren’t naive. But it forced my hand. I couldn’t risk him trying to take you, or anything like that. You were his greatest asset—his greatest fighter—and I didn’t know the lengths he’d take to secure your help.”

“Oh, Ender,” Phil mutters. “This is all…oh, Ender. I can’t _believe_ neither of you told me.”

“I didn’t know,” Techno says petulantly, crossing his arms.

Phil looks at him flatly. “You didn’t listen.”

“Anyway,” Wilbur says quickly, saving them again. “I needed another option. Someone _good,_ like Technoblade. When we went to scout out Dream before the tournament, I saw how good he was. Not as good as you, obviously,” he says to Techno, “but good enough to pass. So I followed him.”

“The night I beat him,” Techno corrects.

“Yeah,” Wilbur says. “A couple nights ago.”

“What’d you ask him, then?” Phil asks. “I’m sure he was just thrilled to see you.”

Wilbur snorts. “Oh, yes. Thrilled. His trigger happy friend tried to hit me, actually. They were all a little…riled up.”

“What’d you ask him?” Phil repeats.

“Well, I knew that he’d be pissed off after the loss, and I figured that’d make him more susceptible to offers of potential violence. I told him everything, and he believed me. He was furious at Schlatt. All three of them were. More furious then I expected them to be, actually. It almost seemed like they had a personal vendetta against him, or something. It was weird—but that’s beside the point. We planned this whole thing to take Schlatt down. We were going to do it tonight.”

“That’s why you went back to the SMP earlier,” Techno infers.

Wilbur nods. “The plan was involved, so I met the three of them early to hammer everything out. I’ll save you the needless details, but we snuck into the club and were planning to sneak into his office. Turns out he was already _in_ his office.” Shadows fall over Wilbur’s countenance. His voice darkens. “But before we could get inside, a kid walked past us.” 

“Tommy,” Phil says.

“We told him to be quiet, but he didn’t know what we were about. He just rolled his eyes and walked past us, like he’d done this a million times. He was holding a piece of paper. A message, I think, for Schlatt. He entered the office like he’d done that a million times, too, which I’m sure he had.”

“So you followed him?” Phil asks. 

Wilbur purses his lips. His tone is low, dark, furious. “We heard Schlatt yelling through the door. Tommy was late, he said. We heard him—we heard him—”

“Hurt him,” Phil guesses.

Wilbur bows his head, squeezing his eyes shut like he can block out the memory. Techno knows this too well—knows, too, that any efforts to that cause are always futile. “So I went inside the office. And Schlatt—” Wilbur’s voice cracks. “Schlatt broke a bottle over his head.”

Phil jerks to his feet. _“What?”_

Techno knows it’s futile. He knows, for time and experience and failure have taught him, but he squeezes his eyes shut, anyway. The image is only clearer. A pallor rises on his face. Bile churns in his stomach, and he wants to throw up. It’s a different, deeper kind of sickness than he’s ever felt before. Worse.

So, so much worse.

“You heard me,” Wilbur murmurs. 

The silence that follows is too tense, too full. Something clamps Techno’s head from either side, and he sees the glass slamming into Tommy’s skull over and over and over, sees the birth of that terrible gash on his forehead that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

At length, Phil—stronger by far than Techno ever will be—sinks back down to his stump and clears his throat. “What then?”

Wilbur takes another deep breath. On his exhale, he continues. “It’s all kind of a blur. We screamed at Schlatt. I pulled Tommy behind us—well, we didn’t know it was Tommy at the time, but it was a _kid_ , and that was reason enough to protect him and to hate Schlatt—and Dream shoved Schlatt away. It…it all started adding up. The glass and the blood. He’d been using and abusing a kidnapped child. A child _he_ had kidnapped. I knew there was something worse than money laundering going on, but I didn’t know it…I never would’ve thought it was…”

“This,”Phil says. 

“Yeah,” Wilbur mutters. “I figured it must be something else about money. Not anything—nothing like this.”

Phil drags his hands over his face. 

“He tried—and failed, thankfully—to throw another bottle at Tommy.” Wilbur clears his throat, voice quiet, but stronger. “Techno came in right after that. I hadn’t known he’d come, but he did, and…well. We got banned from returning.”

“There won’t be anything to return to, soon,” Techno says darkly.

Phil glances at him. “Planning some arson?”

“Something like that.”

Phil sighs. “Okay, so—let me get this straight. You didn’t know it was Tommy? Or your soulmate? He just happened to be there?”

“I had no idea,” Wilbur replies. “But he didn’t just _happen to be there_. Schlatt’s had him there for years.”

“It explains a lot,” Techno agrees.

Phil turns to him. “And you didn’t listen to Wilbur because…?”

Techno scowls. “We’re still on that?” he mutters.

Phil looks at him flatly. 

Techno drops his narrowed eyes to the ground. “I didn’t want to, I guess,” he mumbles. “I…you were right, Wilbur. I’m good at fighting and I didn’t want to lose it. I got too caught up in it. I’m—” He huffs an exhale. “I’m sorry.” 

“I should have pressed you harder,” Wilbur says. “It was important, and I gave up on you before you had the chance to really understand. I should have explained it to you in full before running after Dream—”

“You _did_ explain it,” Techno says. “I just—”

“I yelled it at you,” Wilbur says, laughing a little bitterly. “If I had just talked it through, you would have listened. I know you would have. You always do.”

Guilt—sharp and piercing—crawls into Techno’s throat. He drops his head into his hands. Firelight flickers on his eyelids. “We could’ve gotten him sooner,” he murmurs. “We could’ve—if I had just _listened_ to you—we could’ve gotten him back sooner.”

“Tech,” Phil says, and his tone is so harsh that Techno lifts his eyes. Phil is glaring at him. “Stop.”

“I’m not sulking,” Techno says.

Phil rolls his eyes. “Stop blaming yourself. It is what it is; we’ve found him now. There’s no point what-if-ing the past, yeah? Leave it where it is.”

Phil is right, so Techno nods. “Anyway,” he says, turning back to Wilbur. “I’ll try, from here on. To listen better.”

Wilbur smiles. “Well, I’ll be more vehement in the future. When I need you to know something.” His expression sobers a little. “I won’t jump straight to Dream, either.”

Techno averts his eyes, embarrassed by how much it hurts that Wilbur had done that. _He’s_ the one at fault here, not Wilbur, but it doesn’t matter: he is embarrassed all the same. He doesn’t dare admit it, but he thinks Wilbur understands—he watches Techno closely, clears his throat, and says, “I’m done talking to him, Technoblade.”

Techno shrugs the offer off. “You can talk to whoever you want to,” he says.

“But I know what it means to you,” Wilbur says. “So I’ll cut ties with him. I promise.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Techno mutters. “I don’t even have a good reason to dislike him. He’s probably a nice guy.”

“But—”

“Quit being stubborn, Tech,” Phil chides.

Techno flushes at the rebuke. He glances up at Wilbur and says, “You really won’t talk to him?”

“No,” Wilbur says. “I promise.”

“Thanks,” Techno murmurs. “It—thanks.”

“Well,” Wilbur says, “you’re far more important to me than he is.”

Techno smiles.

Phil looks between them both, eyes wide with feigned incredulity. “Did you both just have a _conversation?_ Where you talked about your _emotions?_ What’s wrong with you?”

Wilbur laughs softly. 

“Don’t get used to it,” Techno says. “It won’t ever happen again.”

Phil smiles. He claps his hands together quietly. “Lovely. We’ve got that sorted. I’m guessing that’s all, then, Wil?”

Wilbur sobers. “Almost,” he says. “I—this is a little off topic, but I think it’s still important.”

“Go on,” Phil prompts.

“Dream and his friends were talking before I got there. They didn’t mean for me to hear, I don’t think, but…anyway. They know who the Crown Prince is. And he’s—he’s coming back.”

“To the SMP?” Phil asks. 

“Yeah,” Wilbur says. “He’ll be the same age as Techno, now, I think, and he’s coming for Schlatt.”

“To overthrow him?” Phil asks. 

“In a sense,” Wilbur responds, shrugging. “Not sure how it’s _overthrowing_ when he’s the one that belongs there in the first place, but I digress.”

“This is the war you think’s he’s been preparing for,” Phil guesses. 

“Yes,” Wilbur says gravely. “I’m almost certain. Schlatt’s army is strong, but I’m sure the majority of citizens will band behind the Crown Prince once he’s revealed himself. Dream’s friend also mentioned that they wouldn’t stop fighting until the younger prince was found.”

“Do they think Schlatt has him?” Phil asks.

“I don’t think anyone knows anything about him,” Wilbur says.

They continue talking, and Techno cares, but he doesn’t, really, because the SMP has never been his home. He flicks his eyes to Tommy and watches him sleep. 

After a couple of minutes, Tommy’s fingers start to twitch. Techno narrows his eyes and watches him closer. Phil and Wilbur’s voices fade to background noise. 

The twitches intensify. Tommy’s whole body starts to shake. Techno watches in horror as he raises his arms to fend off some invisible demon his mind has created. His eyelids flutter and his body curls in on itself, like it has been here before, like it knows exactly what to do. 

Techno shoots off the stump onto his feet. He crosses the short distance just in time for the white noise to abruptly cut off and be replaced by ear-piercing shrieks. Tommy bolts upright, eyes wide and far, far away. His arms are still up, and his shrieks are only interrupted by heavy, labored breaths. 

Techno snaps himself out of his trance. Without having a clue what he’s doing, he sinks down to Tommy’s side. “Tommy,” he starts. “Tommy, it’s me.”

Tommy scrambles away. 

Techno freezes.

Tommy’s fear is tangible. His face is paler than a sheet. He scrambles away, and Techno freezes, because Tommy is scared, and he isn’t scared of him—not really—but he _is_ scared of him.

Techno’s heart drops. 

Tommy blinks. The glaze over his eyes clears. He looks at Techno and _sees_ Techno, and something like guilt slips into his eyes. He flounders for a moment—opening his mouth, shutting it—and the silence in the campsite is loud. 

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers. 

Techno shakes his head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Tommy bows his head. He uses one hand to rub his bloodshot eyes and runs the other through his hair. There are tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Techno murmurs.

“No,” Tommy says. “Never.”

“That’s okay,” Techno says softly, even though it’s not. Nothing about this is okay. “You’re okay.”

Tommy looks at the fire for a long moment, before glancing behind Techno at Phil and Wilbur. He flushes, embarrassed, and looks away again, wiping his face with one agitated hand until all traces of his tears are gone. 

He takes a deep, shuttering breath, and raises his eyes to Techno. “You’re really here, aren’t you?” he whispers.

“Yes,” Techno says. 

“Can you—can you stay with me?”

Techno moves toward him hesitantly, wary of his previous reaction. But Tommy doesn’t move away, only settles back down, tucking his hands under his head, closing his eyes. Techno lies next to him.

“Always,” Techno murmurs.

Tommy falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Got some stuff I'm excited for coming up; I hope you like where things go! 
> 
> If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment--they make my day! Either way, thanks again for reading! <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your comments last chapter! They mean so much!! 
> 
> Guyssss I was going to split this up but then I didn't since this is the first update in a week. Oh well. Forget everything I said about shorter chapters, I can clearly not be trusted.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Lots of healing and fluff <3
> 
> tw // implied eating disorder

The morning is cold.

He doesn’t think he gets any sleep. He can’t remember; things have hazed together in his mind. The campfire’s flame makes the night feel like day. The forest’s shadow makes the day feel like night. 

He judges time, then, by when Tommy wakes up. 

Once, he wakes coughing. His lungs are full of water, Phil says, and spoons a mixture into his mouth. 

Once, he wakes convulsing. His fever is spiking, Phil says, and eases him to the floor. 

Once, he wakes vomiting. His stomach is inflamed, Phil says, and holds his hair back.

Once, he wakes shivering. His fever is peaking, Phil says, and wraps him in a blanket. 

On all of these occasions, Wilbur has to bodily block Techno from sprinting forward. “We’re _useless_ , Techno,” he hisses, not wanting to disturb Phil’s work. “We’ll only make it harder for them both.”

Techno shoves him away, eyes blazing, but he only makes it a couple steps before Wilbur latches onto him again—drags him back, halts his progress. “You can’t help, Techno. You _can’t help_.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Techno snarls, but he knows. He _knows_ , and that’s the worst part—Tommy is coughing, convulsing, vomiting, shivering, and _he can’t help_.

He can’t do anything but watch. 

So he watches. He struggles in Wilbur’s hold, but, after Wilbur’s persistence, gives in, and just watches.

Wilbur wraps his arms around him every time. It doesn’t make a difference—it doesn’t block his sight.

“He’s healing,” Phil murmurs, but Techno looks at Tommy and can’t see a difference.

///

“Phil asked for you,” Techno says.

Wilbur doesn’t turn. “Urgent?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Fair,” Wilbur says, and still doesn’t turn. He is digging through his pockets.

Techno drags a hand down his face, sighing. “That means come on. Since, you know. _Phil asked for you.”_

“I heard you the first time,” Wilbur says. “I’m almost done.”

Techno blinks blearily, shakes his head, and steps toward where Wilbur stands in front of a pathetic pile of sticks. He frowns. “Are you looking to be mocked?”

“I’m _looking_ for flint and steel.”

Techno pulls his spare from his pocket and pushes it into Wilbur’s hand.

“Thanks,” Wilbur says, glancing at him. It only takes a moment for him to start the fire.

“What are you—oh.”

Wilbur’s pulled the notebook from the inside of his coat. 

“Isn’t that evidence?” Techno asks.

Wilbur shrugs. He tears piece after piece out of the binding.

“Against Schlatt,” Techno continues. “You mentioned using it against him. You—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Wilbur snaps. The flames grow with each piece of fuel they receive. Quieter, he repeats, “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” 

“You want to take him down, though—” 

“I don’t care,” Wilbur says.

He is too worn out to think, to process; he does not understand. He wants to ask Wilbur _why_ , but Wilbur glances at him, eyes sharp, and despite his exhaustion, he finds his answer.

“I understand,” he mutters.

Wilbur drops another clump of paper. “I know you do.”

///

Techno is wrong, but, for the first time in his life, he is so, so, _so_ grateful.

Phil is right. Time passes. Tommy sleeps. 

Tommy heals.

He wakes up coherent—startlingly coherent. As coherent as he’d been when he’d woken from his nightmare. 

None of them notice at first. Wilbur’s strumming his guitar, Phil’s head is bent into a book, Techno’s sharpening, polishing his second sword—but a throat is cleared, and they all drop what they are doing.

Literally drop. The guitar creaks, the book thuds, the sword clatters.

Tommy blinks.

“Hey,” Techno says, standing to move toward him, not voicing his incomprehensible relief. He doesn’t want to overwhelm him. “Hey. You’re up.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. There’s a glaze to his eyes, but it’s more disbelief than illness, so Techno is relieved.Tommy furrows his eyebrows. “I…how long was I out?”

“Few days,” Phil says, and Techno will never know if it’s the truth. Phil walks over to settle himself beside where Techno already sits. Wilbur stands at his side. “Not too bad at all. Mind if I check your fever?”

Tommy flushes. “No,” he says. “Go ‘head.”

Phil smiles at him kindly and reaches across to press the back of his hand to Tommy’s forehead. After a moment, he retracts it, satisfied. “Super low grade, if anything at all. You seem with it, at least—how’s your breathing?”

“Just fine,” Tommy says, absently placing a hand on his stomach. “Basically nothing hurts.”

Techno snorts his disbelief. 

Tommy looks at him. “What?”

“You look like you’ve been run over by a mountain,” he says.

“ _Technoblade_ ,” Wilbur chides, flicking his shoulder. 

“What? I’m just saying.”

Tommy only crinkles his nose. “Mountains can’t run things over.”

“Then you look like you pissed off Ender’s dragon.”

“ _Technoblade_ ,” Wilbur repeats, exasperated. 

Techno spares him an annoyed glance. “It’s the truth,” he says, and it _is_ , and he’s _worried_ , and this is how he says as much. He turns back to Tommy, one eyebrow raised. “No point in denying it.”

“You haven’t changed at all,” Tommy mutters.

Techno purses his lips on his smile. “That’s not an answer.”

“He’s right, Tommy,” Phil cuts in gently, before Tommy’s open mouth can configure a response. “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I won’t be able to help.”

Techno sees the sharp retort jump into Tommy’s eyes— _I don’t need help. I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help_ —but, swallowing, he mumbles, “All right. It’s a laundry list, though.”

“That’s fine,” Phil says.

“I—my head hurts. Right here on the cut, and inside my brain. It’s pounding. It does that a lot. And then my arm is—no, not that arm…yeah. The burned one.” He flinches. “It’s, uh. Well, it’s a little painful.”

“I can imagine,” Phil says. “I re-wrapped it a couple hours ago, but it’ll take some time for the cream to start making a difference.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Wilbur says.

They look at him in question.

He shrugs. “All we have is time.”

Phil smiles, turning back to Tommy. “He’s right. You take as much time as you need to get better, all right? Don’t hesitate to ask me for _anything_. Just _please_ , for the love of Ender, do _not_ ask these two to help you with anything medical related.”

Wilbur shrugs his agreement, but Techno scoffs. “I know basic things,” he says. “I’m not completely incompetent.”

“Oh, sure,” Tommy says, voice strengthening with every word he speaks, posture softening with every second that passes. “You’re especially good with broken arms.”

Techno looks at him. He’s smirking and smug because this is _their_ memory, and here he sits, after all this time, joking about it.

Techno rolls his eyes, because that’s what he _does_ , but a feeling he’d nearly forgotten spreads through his chest.

_Peace_.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Wilbur says. “ _Technoblade?”_

Tommy scowls lightly, and Techno is confused, but it disappears as soon as it’s come and Tommy grins. “Oh, wait ’til you hear this. Techno’s _insane._ He had a broken arm for _two years—”_

“Two _years?”_ Phil echoes, rounding on Techno. “Two _years?”_

“Thanks a lot, Tommy,” he says dryly.

Tommy laughs. Halfway through it morphs into a cough, and they frown but pretend like they hadn’t noticed when he continues, “I told him to go to the hospital, but he said he didn’t like the SMP—which I guess I get—but then I offered to break it for him and he wouldn’t even let me!”

“You were _seven!”_

“You shouldn’t have doubted my strength,” Tommy says, and coughs again. The bout passes, but his subsequent smile is weaker than it’d been. “I could’ve done it.”

“That would’ve been a disaster,” Wilbur says bluntly.

“Precisely why I told him _no_.”

“And then you suffered,” Tommy says. “So who really wins?”

Phil and Wilbur laugh, but Techno narrows his eyes. Sitting up even this long has taken its toll: Tommy’s face is paling, his eyelids are struggling. 

“You need to rest,” Techno says. 

Tommy rolls his eyes. “You just don’t want me to tell them about the time you—”

“No,” Techno says easily. “No, I do not. So lie down and stop talking before I sic Phil on you.”

Tommy glances at Phil, scrunching his nose. “No.”

“What d’you mean, no?”

“No, I don’t think he’ll listen to you.”

Techno glances at Phil, who shrugs. “Health comes first,” he says. “That’s my rule. My only one, actually.” He looks at Techno pointedly. “It’s often broken.”

Techno smirks.

“Unsurprising,” Tommy mutters, but gives into his body’s demands and settles back down. 

He’s asleep within minutes. 

After a stretch of silence, Wilbur turns to him, eyebrows raised. “That was…”

“Surprising?” Techno tries.

“I was going to say impressive,” Wilbur replies. “I mean, he—he seems _fine_. It doesn’t make sense.”

It doesn’t, but it _does_ , because they’ve all done it, too. Cover the scars and marks with clothing, cover the wounds with bandages, cover the hurt with pride, cover the pain with bravado. It is nothing new. 

And it’s easy to recognize in Tommy, who wears every emotion on his face and parades his life, his memories in the shadow of his expression. He surprised Techno and impressed Wilbur because he’s _Tommy,_ and because Techno shouldn’t have expected anything less, but that doesn’t make him _fine_.

It makes him stupid. It makes him _brave_.

“Told you he was special,” Techno mutters.

Wilbur smiles.

“He’ll tell us someday,” Phil says. “In the meantime, though, you helped him a lot, Tech. You made him feel more comfortable.” 

Techno flushes at the praise. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, dropping his eyes to the floor. “I don’t mean to be…harsh, but I—I don’t know.”

“You were yourself,” Phil says. “And the more you were, the more he talked. He obviously doesn’t like to be coddled.”

“No,” Techno says. And then dryly, “A shame, since I’m such an incredibly attentive caregiver.”

“You’re incapable of sympathy,” Wilbur says, smirking.

Techno scowls at him. “You’re incapable of sarcasm.”

“You’re incapable of—”

“You’re _both_ incapable of silence,” Phil says, softly reprimanding. “He’s asleep.”

“I win,” Wilbur mutters.

Techno shoves him.

///

Tommy doesn’t eat.

It takes Techno a couple days to notice. Food doesn’t repulse him or turn him green or anything of the sort. Quite the contrary—Tommy all but drools when looking at whatever Phil’s whipped together.

But, as soon as they sit on their stump circle to eat, Tommy declines every morsel.

“It might be the fever,” Phil mutters one night, pursing his lips.

Techno scrapes a hand through his hair. “I thought his fever was gone.”

“It is, but…I mean, you saw how bad he was. He’s obviously not 100%. Lack of appetite isn’t _too_ surprising.” 

Techno bites the inside of his cheek, watching Tommy curl closer to the fire.

“We’ll watch him,” Phil says quietly. “See if anything seems too off.”

Techno nods absently. 

///

“I still can’t believe it,” Tommy says, all wide-eyed, _I’ve-just-met-my-idol_ awe.

He’s stronger today, sitting in all his bandaged glory against the trunk of a tree. An untouched apple sits on the dirt before him. He glances at it every so often, but avoids touching it like the plague. 

“My disguise was good,” Techno says.

“The _Blade_ ,” Tommy says, grinning. He shakes his head. “I just—this is _so cool_. Of _course_ it was you.”

“You didn’t have any clue?” Techno asks. 

“Not at _all_.”

“That’s kind of surprising,” Wilbur says. “I figured…” He glances at Techno, squinting vaguely. “Well, actually…I guess the mask covered most of your face, right?”

“And the hair,” Tommy says. “He was blonde when I knew him, y’know, and—”

Techno scoffs. “I wasn’t _blonde,”_

“You were _so_ blonde—”

“Not even _close_. It was brown, like Wilbur’s—”

Tommy laughs incredulously. “Why are you _lying?_ You were _blonde_ —”

“I’m so confused,” Wilbur says vaguely.

Techno rubs his eyes with two fingers. “Fine,” he admits. “It was a mix.”

“What do you mean a mix?” Tommy demands. “You were—”

Techno looks at him flatly. “I’ve already budged,” he says. “Don’t push it further.”

Tommy grins. “All right, all right. Mix between what, though?” 

“Yours and Wilbur’s,” he says. “It wasn’t blonde, but it wasn’t brown. It—this conversation is stupid. I’m ending it.”

“I win,” Tommy says. When Techno only rolls his eyes, his grin turns smug, and he continues, “Anyway. The pink looks completely different. With the mask, too…I wouldn’t have ever guessed.”

“D’you like it better pink?” Wilbur asks. “I wish I’d seen it when it was blonde.”

Techno scowls. 

Tommy grins at Wilbur. “I hate it,” he says.

“Uh huh,” Techno says.

“Blonde was way—”

“I wasn’t _blonde—”_

“For Ender’s sake, _please_ ,” Wilbur begs. “No more.”

Tommy laughs. Techno glares. 

Phil won’t be back for another couple hours—he’d insisted on hunting alone; Techno has a strong suspicion he knows why, and he thinks Wilbur knows, too—so, after Techno’s brief but justified stint of irritated silence passes, they talk and talk and talk. Tommy emphasizes his admiration for The Blade time and time again— _I cannot believe it was you.—_ and, despite his words, he is obviously pleased that it turned out to be Techno. But in doing so, he admits somethings that Techno doesn’t think he realizes…something compels Wilbur to glance at Techno, biting his lip, as soon as Tommy isn’t looking.

“I watched The Blade fight _everyday._ It was the _best_ part of my day. I hid in the crowd and I blent in so well, no one ever found me. Except for…well, anyway. My room was too small to practice in, but I laid in bed every night and ran through the forms you’d taught me _plus_ the new ones I memorized watching The Blade. It was _so cool_ , and—”

On and on and on. 

His eyes light up as he talks, and Techno wonders how much he doesn’t know.

They never talk about anything. When Phil gets back that night, Techno pulls him aside and asks him about it— _Am I supposed to know? Am I supposed to ask?_

Phil sighs. “Trauma isn’t easy to talk about,” he murmurs. “You know that just as well as anyone.” 

Techno blinks the sudden rush of memories away, and thinks, _My past was bad. Tommy’s is incomprehensible._

“He’ll come to you when he’s ready,” Phil says.

“And if he doesn’t?” Techno mutters.

“He will,” Phil says, but doesn’t meet his eyes.

Techno sees it for what it is.

_He might not_.

What then?

///

“Help,” Tommy says, shaking his hand in the hair.

“I’m not helping you stand up,” he says flatly.

“Help,” Tommy repeats.

“I might rip your arm off,” Techno says.

Tommy scoffs. “As if. I’m made of stronger stuff.”

“Gentle, Techno,” Phil warns.

“I’m not _actually_ going to hurt him,” Techno says.

Tommy crosses his arms. “I don’t even want to go on a walk. I’m not a _dog_.”

“Go on, Tommy,” Phil prompts, and it’s _almost_ a warning.

Tommy scowls. “Fine,” he mutters, and holds out his hand again.

Techno hauls him up.

“Wilbur’ll be back soon, Phil,” Techno tells him over his shoulder. “He went off to practice.”

“All right,” Phil says. “Watch him close, yeah?”

“I don’t need him to watch me,” Tommy mutters. “I can watch myself.”

“Just as well,” Phil says, but gives Techno a pointed look.

Techno nods, and they head down the forest path.

“Yay,” Tommy says after a few moments of unexcited silence. “Exercise.”

“You’re already paling,” Techno says.

“That’s not a small talk topic.”

Techno snorts. 

“You’re not very good at small talk, anyway,” Tommy says, scrunching his nose. “I remember that.”

“I’m incredible,” he retorts. “My social skills are off the charts.”

“Sure, sure,” Tommy says. He squints, so Techno follows his gaze, but there’s nothing to see so Techno figures he must be thinking. Indeed, a few moments later he asks, “What did you mean, ‘practice?’”

“Wilbur?” Techno asks.

“Yeah.”

“He plays guitar,” Techno says. 

Tommy stops, eyes widening. “Is that why—I mean, my—”

“The marks are guitars,” Techno says, nodding. “Yes.”

“D’you know why they’re blue?” 

“No,” Techno says. 

“Huh,” Tommy says, and they resume walking. “Have you found out why you’ve got crowns yet?”

“No idea,” Techno says. “Phil says the universe never makes mistakes, but I was born, so—”

Tommy laughs. 

Techno smiles. “No, but really. I can’t see how they’ll ever make sense.”

“I don’t know why I’ve got discs, either,” Tommy mutters. He looks at Techno, eyebrows furrowed, face ever-paling. “What about Phil?”

“He never told me how exactly he got them,” Techno says, shrugging. “I’m sure he would if we asked, but I haven’t.”

“Did they make sense to him?”

“Not at first. Later.”

“Huh,” Tommy says again. 

Techno hesitates, but asks, carefully, “What about your other soulmate?”

A cloud of shadow flits over Tommy’s face. “Yeah. He’s a bee, y’know, and…yeah. It makes sense, I guess.”

“D’you still have the—” 

Before he can even finish his sentence, Tommy lifts his bandaged arm to his collarbone and pulls the beehive charm out from under his shirt. 

It looks a little worse for wear—which, after four years, is entirely unsurprising—but altogether similar. Just like he remembers; same shoelace and everything.

Techno grins.

“He’s gonna love it,” Tommy says, and Techno recognizes the strain in his voice as the one that was in his own while he was searching all those years.

“Have you…I mean, did you ever see him?”

“Nah,” Tommy says, shrugging it off like he doesn’t care, like Techno can’t see the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I will someday, though. Someday soon.”

Techno drops the conversation. He doesn’t affirm Tommy’s hope, because he can’t, but he doesn’t refute it, either, and he thinks Tommy is grateful. 

They move slow. Techno doesn’t mention it, because he can see the focus on Tommy’s face—he’s trying, trying, trying to heal. Phil said he needs to get his strength up, and this is how they’ll do it. He needs to eat more, too, but that’s a problem for another day.

“Techno?” Tommy asks as they’re turning to head back. 

“Hm?”

“Is…” He laughs uncomfortably and rubs the back of his neck. “Never mind.”

Techno glances at him. His pallor’s been dominated by exercise’s flush, but it’s a darker flush than it was the last time Techno looked. He’s embarrassed.

Techno frowns. “What is it?” 

“Nothing,” Tommy mumbles, looking down.

“You can’t do that,” Techno says. “Bring something up and decide not to talk about it.”

“Of course I can,” Tommy retorts. “I got it from you. It’s your favorite tactic.”

_“Tactic_ ,” Techno echoes, laughing, like conversation is a battle. Might as well be for him, he supposes. Claiming he was an incredible conversationalist had, of course, been a lie. “It’s your turn to think of a topic, anyway. I already did.”

“It’s fine.”

“Tommy,” he prods.

Sighing, Tommy rolls his eyes.

“That was unnecessarily dramatic,” Techno points out.

Despite himself, Tommy laughs. 

“Come on,” Techno says. “You can ask me.”

“Well, I just…” He bites his lip. “It’s stupid.”

“I’m sure it is,” Techno says.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say to that,” Tommy says.

“Question, Tommy.”

“Right,” Tommy mutters. He kicks the toe of his shoe into the ground. “Are you…Is Wilbur your brother?”

Techno blinks.

He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been anything like _that_.

He scrunches his features up. “What gave you that idea?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tommy says sarcastically, and Techno sees right through it—a cover for how much a lack of answer has been bothering him. “Maybe when he told…”

“Told him what?” Techno asks, saving him from saying the name that’s prompted a physical reaction in Tommy: swallowing, shrinking, blanching.

He shakes himself out of it, and says, “When you came in that night, he asked Wilbur if he knew you. And…” He looks down, flushing more, mumbling when he continues, “…and Wilbur said ‘He’s my brother.’”

“Oh,” Techno says, not quite understanding why it means so much to him. “I don’t remember him saying that.”

“I do,” Tommy mutters.

“Well, he isn’t,” Techno says easily. “We’d been living together for a couple of years by then, so I guess he…I guess it must’ve come out naturally.”

Tommy scrunches his nose, looking up at him with slightly glazed eyes. He’s tiring. They need to get home quick. “ _We_ lived together for a couple of years, too.”

“True,” Techno says, and misses his point.

It doesn’t matter; Tommy expounds. “So that makes me your brother, too.”

Techno blinks. Tommy’s looking at him closely… _hopefully,_ almost, and Techno is never inclined to engage in meaningful conversations where he can avoid them, but his instincts tell him _Well, none of us are brothers. We’re not related to each other,_ isn’t quite the response Tommy’s looking for.

“Yeah,” he says instead, and he doesn’t know how the smile gets onto his face but he’s not surprised in the slightest. It’s _Tommy,_ after all—that’s what Tommy does. “Yeah, I suppose it does.”

Tommy beams.

///

“Technoblade,” Wilbur whispers.

Techno glances up from his book. He shuts it and stands as soon as he registers Wilbur’s grave expression.

Wilbur gestures him over, but he’s already walking. As soon as he reaches him, he murmurs, “What is it?” 

“You’ll…want to see this.”

Both Phil and Tommy are long asleep, so they move in silence. It doesn’ matter, though, for the trip is short—a minute and a half at most.

They stop in an unremarkable patch of forest. Wilbur points at a hollow log. “In there,” he mutters.

Techno furrows his eyebrows. “In the—”

“In the log,” Wilbur asserts.

“What—”

“Just look,” Wilbur says, and pushes the tiny torch into his hand.

Techno looks.

He wishes he hadn’t. 

Inside the log are apples and mangos and oranges and potatoes and carrots and venison and day old steak, day old cod, day old bread, week old lettuce, week old radishes—

Techno stares.

Some foods are half eaten; others are untouched. 

He blanches, straightens, and hands the torch back. 

“You saw?” Wilbur asks. “It’s—”

“I know what it is,” he snaps, pacing, dragging his hands through his braid. “I don’t know what to do about it.”

“We should tell Phil,” Wilbur whispers.

“That’s not a solution. This isn’t—talking about it isn’t going to _fix_ it, Wilbur. We need to—we—I don’t _know_ what we need to do.”

The silence is tense.

“At least he’s eating,” Wilbur murmurs.

Techno spins toward him. “He’s not—this isn’t _normal!”_

Wilbur scowls. “Obviously not,” he says. “What do you take me for? I’m not stupid.”

“I know, I know,” Techno says, groaning, dragging his hands down his face. “I just…” His shoulders slump, and he peeks at Wilbur through his fingers. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

“I know you didn’t,” Wilbur says. 

“I just don’t understand,” Techno says. “He should just eat with us. He doesn’t have to…to do this.”

Wilbur looks down and scuffs the ground with his toe, arms crossed, expression distant.

“What?” Techno prods, sensing a memory in his face.

Wilbur twists his lips to one side and doesn’t raise his eyes. “I lived in an orphanage before the first war,” he said. “And it…the owner was nice enough. His daughter was my best friend, y’know. She’s my other soulmate. But sometimes there wasn’t enough food for all of us. We had to…well, there was lots of fighting.” He chuckles bitterly. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Techno listens wide-eyed—Wilbur’s never talked about his past. 

“Point is,” he says, continuing, “I came up with different strategies. To make sure I had food, y’know.” He turns his face away like he’s ashamed, like he’s mortified. Techno wonders if this is the first time he’s spoken about it. “I stole portions from the other kids. Hid it, too, just like this. Inside my pillowcase.”

Techno’s mouth is dry. He doesn’t—he can’t _do_ this, can’t say what he wants to, what he must, but he tries anyway. “Wilbur,” he starts. “It’s—”

“It’s okay, Technoblade,” Wilbur says. “It’s just—I’m not trying to make it about myself, I promise. All I’m saying is that I understand.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Techno says quietly.

Wilbur huffs an acid laugh. “I’m not looking for pity.”

“I’m not offering any,” he says.

“No,” Wilbur mutters. “No, I suppose that would be out of character.”

Desperation to help compels him to try again. “I can’t even _count_ how many things I’ve stolen. I’m just as bad, Wilbur, and—”

Wilbur shakes his head. “You don’t get it,” he murmurs. “You weren’t—you didn’t see them. They were starving. All of us were. The taxes kept rising, and the…well, none of it matters, now. The orphanage was the first building bombed, anyway.”

Techno stares. He remembers, vaguely, watching the first bombs fall from the sky, watching the SMP burn, burn, standing on his tiptoes and being mesmerized by the flames. Not understanding the implications, the tragedies, the innocent lives forever destroyed, forever taken.

“I never gave any of it back,” Wilbur says softly, distantly. “I was going to. Every night, I said _tomorrow_. Tomorrow, I’ll give it back.” He finally looks up. “You know the rest.”

Yes, he does.

_Tomorrow never came_.

“Well,” Techno says, bracing himself, “now you have another tomorrow.”

Wilbur furrows his eyebrows in question.

“I have no idea how to help Tommy. But if you—I mean, if you’ve already…you know.” He cringes at his utter lack of eloquence. “If you’re familiar with the situation, you could try and help him through it.”

Wilbur scoffs. “I couldn’t even help myself. How am I _possibly_ supposed to help him?”

“I don’t know,” Techno admits. “But if anyone can, it’s you.”

Wilbur starts to shake his head, but, realizing who he’s talking to—and who just said something _incredibly cliche, what’s wrong with him, what’s become of him_ —glances up, smiling slightly. “You’re getting good at this,” he says.

Techno’s lip curls up. “Don’t patronize me.”

Wilbur’s smile deepens. “Have you been practicing?”

“I’ve been around a sick Tommy too much. Do you know how soft he is? He likes talking about all this deep crap, and—”

“It’s impossible not to give in,” Wilbur says, nodding, smiling. “It’s because you’re a pushover.”

“No,” Techno says, because he has no argument against the truth.

Wilbur grins.

It fades after a few seconds, and Techno thinks the moments are over, but Wilbur says, “Okay. I’ll try to help him. I won’t accost him or anything, I’ll just…I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks, Wilbur.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” Wilbur says.

Techno smiles.

///

“This,” Techno says, hiding it behind his back, “is only four years late.”

Tommy grins, eyes glinting in anticipation. “I don’t think you’ve ever been on time to anything in your life.”

“I _have_.”

“Uh huh.”

Techno rolls his eyes. “This is why I don’t do nice things for people.”

“What is it?” Tommy asks, almost bouncing. “Can I see?”

“Relax,” Techno says, but it out fr0m behind his back.

Tommy stares.

“The condition isn’t quite the same,” Techno says, feeling suddenly nervous—four years is a long, long build up; he’d prefer it not end in rejection. “I made it on your birthday, actually. The one when…anyway, Phil used it when we were training, so it’s a bit botched up in places, but I’ve been polishing it for weeks—ever since we found you—so I think it’s fairly—”

_“Techno_ ,” Tommy whispers, staring. “Is it really mine?”

“It’s been yours for years,” Techno replies.

Tommy gapes.

“You can’t _use_ it until your headaches are gone,” Techno says. “And also until your head wound’s better, and your arm is healed, and your back, and—”

“Okay, okay,” Tommy says dismissively, diverting attention back to the sword. “Can I hold it?”

“Sure,” Techno says. “If you use it, though, I’ll tell Phil.”

The threat lands home. Tommy doesn’t use it, just ducks his head to examine every aspect of it. 

After a few minutes of enthralled silence, Tommy murmurs, “Ender.” He runs his finger over the hilt, and Techno knows exactly what he’s looking at, what he’s reading—

_Then I shall fight in the shade_.

It means something different, now. To both of them.

Tommy looks up at him. “I can’t believe how bad your handwriting is,” he says, but Techno can see his meaning in the water tugging at his eyes— _I can’t believe you made this for me._

“Yeah, well,” Techno says. “Some things never change.”

Tommy hugs him. 

“I never forgot that quote,” Tommy whispers. “I carved it into my wall.”

“Did it ever help you?”

There’s a pause so long Techno doesn’t think he’ll get an answer, but, finally, Tommy says quietly, “Every day.”

///

He and Phil are working in focused silence when Tommy and Wilbur come stumbling back.

Their faces are flushed and happy. They’re stumbling from laughter, not injury, and as soon as Techno realizes this, his posture relaxes. Phil glances at him knowingly.

“Wilbur told me he’s making progress,” Techno says quietly. 

“They are in one regard,” Phil says. “Their friendship’s moving right along.”

Techno shakes his head. “In both,” he argues. “They spoke about it last night, apparently.”

“Well,” Phil says, glancing at Wilbur. “It’s Wilbur. That’s what he does.”

“Fixes things?”

Phil frowns in thought. “I s’pose so, yeah,” he says. 

Tommy laughs loudly, and Techno glances over at him and Wilbur, smiling.

///

“I’m going fishing,” Phil says, and leaves before anyone can protest.

“We know what you’re doing,” Techno calls after him. “You aren’t subtle.”

“Yeah!” Tommy echoes. He turns to Wilbur. “What is he doing?”

Wilbur smirks. “He’s always leaving so the three of us can bond.”

“Do you feel bonded?” Techno asks Tommy. “To me and Wilbur?”

“Never,” Tommy says.

“Oh, look what you’ve done,” Wilbur says. “Now Phil can’t ever come back.”

Tommy snorts. “I didn’t notice he was doing that. Does he want us to know?”

“He knows none of us are stupid,” Techno says, “so I’m sure he expected us to figure it out.”

“Which means he just doesn’t care,” Wilbur says.

“Precisely.”

“Huh,” Tommy says. 

“He knows everything,” Wilbur says. “That is your first and only warning.”

“Warning?” Tommy echoes.

“You’ll thank me later,” Wilbur says, purposely vague.

Techno laughs.

///

“What’s that all about, anyway?” Tommy mutters, scrunching his nose in distaste. He takes an angry bite of his apple.

Techno stares at him. He’s—he took a _bite_.

Wilbur grins behind his hand.

“What’s what about?” Techno asks, still staring at the fruit, absently remembering a question had been asked.

“Your—the—you know.”

Techno blinks his eyes to Tommy’s face. “I’m not going to listen to you if you aren’t trying to make sense.” 

Tommy scowls. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”

Over Tommy’s shoulder, Phil smiles.

Techno narrows his eyes. “Phil knows something.”

Tommy whips around accusingly, but Phil’s smile only widens. “I never know anything,” he says.

“He always knows everything,” Wilbur counters.

“This is my first and only warning,” Tommy quotes.

Wilbur winces. “Not quite. You tried, though, which I appreciate.”

Tommy laughs.

“Don’t change the subject,” Techno says. 

“He’s not going to drop it,” Wilbur says to Tommy. “He’s _Technoblade_. The most stubborn man in the universe.”

Tommy’s scowl deepens. “See? You’ve just done it again.”

Wilbur frowns. Phil’s smile widens.

“What do you know, Phil?” Techno asks suspiciously. 

“Nothing.”

“I don’t buy it,” Techno says.

“What’ve I done?” Wilbur asks Tommy. Techno flicks his eyes back to Tommy’s face. 

“Well, it’s not _your_ fault, or…or anyone’s, I just…it…” He takes a deep breath and looks straight at Techno, narrowing his eyes in challenge. “Your name is _Techno_.”

Techno blinks. “Thanks?”

Phil’s smile widens. None of them notice this time.

“No, no, no,” Tommy says, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. They call you _Technoblade_. I don’t—that’s not your name.”

“I know it isn’t,” he says. “I tried to tell Wilbur, but he preferred Technoblade.”

“Well, _I_ prefer Techno,” Tommy mutters.

“I’ve only ever gone by Techno,” he says placatingly.

“Which one do you like more?” Tommy asks.

“Techno,” he answers.

Tommy slumps in something akin to relief.

After a moment of flicking his eyes in between them, Wilbur asks, “Do I want to know?”

“ _I_ named him Techno,” Tommy says importantly.

Techno winces. 

It’s a brazen statement that immediately wipes the knowing grin from Phil’s face, the hesitance from Wilbur’s. 

“ _You_ named him?” Wilbur echoes, processing, filtering, filing through the information, and of course he’s going to read in between the lines—he’s _Wilbur._

“Yes,” Tommy says, missing or misinterpreting their incredulity as awe. 

“You would’ve been, what, six?” Wilbur asks. 

“I was seven,” Tommy says. He frowns. “Or eight. I can’t remember.”

Wilbur turns slowly to Techno. “Which would’ve made you…”

“Young,” Techno tries.

“No,” Wilbur says. “12.”

“Same thing,” Techno tries again. 

Wilbur purses his lips.

He’s looking at Techno the same way Techno is sure he’d looked at him the other night—desperate for information that no one wants the burden of carrying, of speaking about. They are irritated with each other for not sharing, yet they will none of them share themselves.

Tommy pays enough attention to realize something’s off, so he lets the topic drop. 

Phil, on the other hand, stares at him long enough to bore a hold into the side of his head. As soon as Tommy’s walked off with Wilbur, he moves to sit next to Techno.

“Story time,” Phil says.

“Oh, great. I’ll check my bookshelf.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “You know what I meant.

“I’ve got nothing for you,” Techno says. 

But Phil gives him The Look, and he scowls and complies. 

It’s nice. Easy. Easier by far, at least, than he’d thought it would be. He doesn’t tell him everything. Just the bare skeleton, like Wilbur had given of his life. 

Phil listens.

///

“I thought you were doing better?” Techno asks.

“I _am_ , Techno,” Tommy says, and rolls his eyes. “Ender. You’re like a hen.”

Techno gives him a flat look. “You mean a mother hen?”

Tommy scowls. “You don’t have kids. Besides, you’re a _man_. You can’t be a mother.”

“That’s not—” He shakes his head, snaps his mouth shut. “I’m not even going to try.”

Tommy smirks. 

“It’s irrelevant, anyway,” Techno continues. “You can’t change the subject.”

“Almost worked,” Tommy mutters. 

_“_ I’m not an idiot,” Techno says.

“You kind of are, sometimes—”

“ _Tommy_.”

“Fine, fine.”

“Your head?”

“It’s…okay,” Tommy says, looking down.

“Tommy,” he says gently. “You can tell me.”

Memory reels loop through Tommy’s eyes. Techno wonders what he sees. 

But he shakes them away, and the shadows of the past clear. “It’s all right,” he says. “My head just hurts sometimes.”

Techno frowns. “Did someone—”

“No,” he interrupts, clearing his throat. “No, I’ve always had them.”

And this is false, Techno knows, because Tommy complained about _everything_ back when they were together, and not _once_ did he complain about this, about _headaches,_ and the slow-healing gash on his forehead glows like a sore thumb.

He can see the cause in Tommy's eyes, and he is not surprised. 

_Schlatt_.

“What do you need now, then?” Techno asks quietly. “Water?”

“Can you…” He trails off, flushing, glancing behind Techno at Wilbur. “Never mind.”

….glancing at Wilbur, who’s holding a guitar.

Techno doesn’t know how he connects the dots. Wilbur complies easily, Tommy’s eyes thank him for understanding, for asking. Techno nods his acknowledgement. Soft melodies flood the camp.

One minute, there’s silence. The next, there’s peace.

He’d never realized there was such a drastic difference.

///

“—and that’s my proposal,” Phil finishes. “What do you think?”

The circles on the maps before him shine like an oasis in the desert, but he must ask: “Have you talked to the others?”

“Nope. You’re first.”

“Are you going to?”

“If you say no, I probably won’t.”

“Why would I say no?” Techno asks. He laughs a little incredulously. “This is—I mean, this is great.”

Phil’s eyes shine. “You really think so?”

“Yeah,” Techno says. “The plans for the redesign look flawless, but, more than anything, I just want to sleep under a roof.”

“So you’re good going back?” 

“ _Yes_.”

“We’ve got to wait until he’s completely healed, of course, but after that…”

“Home,” Techno says.

Phil smiles, nods. “Home.”

“Ten gold none of the animals are alive,” Techno says.

“All right,” Phil says. “Deal. But I’m betting with your money, so—”

" _Cheater_."

"Genius, actually. Businessman."

"I'm getting scammed. I'm dealing with a conman."

Phil laughs.

///

“I want a dog,” Tommy says days later, words laced and blurred with sleep.

Techno laughs. It shakes Tommy’s head off of his shoulder, and Tommy whines softly in complaint. Techno rolls his eyes, but immediately readjusts his arm around Tommy’s shoulders, pushing his head back into place.

“I’m serious,” Tommy mumbles.

“You’re half-conscious.”

Tommy pushes his face into Techno’s shoulder. “I want a _dog_.”

Techno glances at Wilbur over Tommy’s head. “You hearing this?”

Wilbur shrugs. “I say get him one.”

Techno glares. “Suck up.”

“To a twelve-year old?” Wilbur asks, laughing. “Surely not.”

“He doesn’t need a _dog_ ,” Techno says, but his thoughts scramble in search of the nearest taiga biome.

“I need a dog,” Tommy mumbles. “ _Need_ one.”

Techno threads his fingers through his hair. Tommy shuffles closer at the contact. “Why, exactly?”

“Just need one.”

Techno snorts. “That’s not a reason.”

“To help him hunt,” Wilbur suggests.

“Mmhm.”

Techno huffs a laugh. “You hate hunting.”

“Yeah, but I like hunting with _you_.”

Techno looks down at him with soft eyes. “Normal you would hate tired you,” he says.

Wilbur snorts. 

“I don’t know what that mea—” He cuts off, yawning hugely. “—means.”

Techno rolls his eyes.

“Well,” Wilbur says after a moment. “ _I_ think he deserves a dog.”

“ _See?”_ Tommy says. “Thanks, Wil.”

_Wil._

Techno glances up. Wilbur’s mouth is open like it was on the verge of speaking, but the nickname gave him pause. He watches Tommy with wide eyes and, after he blinks his surprise away, beams.

Techno smiles.

“Of course, Tommy,” Wilbur whispers.

Tommy falls asleep. Phil, who’d apparently been standing mere feet away during the entirety of the conversation, steps out of the shadows and whispers _His birthday’s coming up._ Wilbur grabs a map, grinning.

Techno sits there with Tommy slumped against his chest, letting go of the past, letting in the future, and a word he’s never dared think in his life jumps into his mind.

_Family_.

Because maybe Tommy _was_ right. Maybe they aren’t brothers, but…maybe they are, in a way. By bond, if not by blood.

Maybe they are family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New character next chapterrrrr pog! Some drama goes down, too, and someone makes a(n unfortunately necessary) decision that none of you are gonna like:( …uh oh. Hopefully it'll be up sooner than this one:D
> 
> Thank you for reading! Consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed...they make my day<3


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to split this chapter up because it ran away from me (is anyone surprised??), so, even though the "drama" I mentioned begins here, the "unfortunately necessary decision that none of you are gonna like" will be next chapter / the one after, lol. I always underestimate my verbosity, smh.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

_nineteen years old_

“What’s that?”

Tommy’s hands pop from his shirt like it’s burned him. “Nothing,” he says, sitting upright. 

Techno raises a dry eyebrow.

Tommy glares.

Techno raises his other eyebrow.

“ _Fine,”_ Tommy mutters, crossing his arms petulantly. “It’s…oh, just look.”

He pulls the hem of his shirt up again. A swarm of yellow ink bees coat the left side of his stomach.

“Oh,” Techno says unhelpfully.

“Yeah,” Tommy mumbles, twisting his lips to one side. His eyes don’t leave the marks.

“That’s not nothing,” Techno says.

“No,” Tommy says. He shuffles the shirt back down. “But I don’t want to know what it is.”

Techno understands.

He swallows his inclination to prod, to ask. Tommy hasn’t seen that soulmate— _Tubbo_ , Techno remembers his name being—in years, after all. Tommy won’t know anymore than he does: nothing.

So instead he says, “Come on. Dinner’s ready,” and holds a hand out to help Tommy up.

Tommy takes it.

///

“My bet’s on Tommy,” Wilbur says.

“Of course it is,” Tommy says, chest puffing up. “I’m going to win.”

“You haven’t fought in years,” Techno says flatly. “There’s no chance.”

Phil rolls his eyes and says, before Tommy can reply, “Ready, then?”

Techno wraps his fingers tight around the hilt. 

“Don’t forget,” Phil mutters in his ear. “No more than fifteen percent effort.”

Somehow, Tommy hears. His sword flops to his side in affronted incredulity. He gapes.

Techno and Wilbur dissolve into laughter.

///

Techno stills. 

Tommy sits cross-legged in the dirt, head bent, wide eyes staring at a rock in his hands.

“You weren’t supposed to find that,” Techno says.

Tommy jumps, looks up. He realizes it’s Techno, though, and relaxes. He looks back down. “You counted,” he says faintly.

“Are you surprised?” Techno asks.

Hints of a smile tug at Tommy’s mouth. He stares a moment longer before asking, “Can I keep it?”

“Gladly,” Techno says. “I don’t have use for it anymore.”

Tommy smiles.

///

“Happy birthday,” Wilbur says.

Tommy blinks.

Techno can’t suppress his grin. Phil can’t suppress his laughter. Nerves hold Wilbur together: he readjusts his grip on the lead, shifts his feet on the pale dirt.

Gentle wind shuffles around them. It sweeps Tommy’s hair into his eyes, so he pushes it away impatiently. His hands stay in his hair as he says, carefully, “I don’t understand.”

Techno’s laugh escapes him. 

“It’s yours,” Wilbur says, extending the lead out to him.

“It’s a—Wilbur, it’s—”

“Not a dog,” Wilbur says, addressing the crux of his anxiety. “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. This was the best I could manage. We looked for _ages_ , but the nearest taiga biome is a mountain away, and—”

Tommy looks up at him with wide, sparkling eyes. “It’s a _cow!”_ he screams.

Techno winces, covers his ears with his hands. “Ender, Tommy,” he mutters. “You sound like—”

His simile is stolen by Tommy, who, in his evident excitement, clasps his hands together, jumps up and down, and grins at the animal in front of him. “It’s a _cow,_ Wilbur! _My_ co—” He turns, suddenly sobered. “It is my cow, right?” 

“Yes,” Wilbur says on an amused, relieved exhale. He pushes the lead into Tommy’s hand. “Obviously.”

“Oh, Ender,” Tommy breathes, and scrambles toward his cow. It’s a young, stubby thing, with patches of gray breaking up dark brown hair and a limp tail swaying in patient wait. Tommy rubs its ear, watching it with giant, exuberant eyes. “This is insane. Cows are _awesome._ I’ve read a ton about them. Do you know all the things they can do? Like hold _50 gallons_ of food in _one stomach?_ Or—”

He rambles and rambles, and Phil and Wilbur laugh joyously, gratefully, but there’s a pronounced distance in his voice that tells Techno what the others do not notice: that these facts are not his own. That someone shared them with him, once—someone important—and maybe he laughed them off at the time, but they’ve come flooding back to him now, with this opportunity to share, this opportunity to remember.

But the distance isn’t longing or wistful or sad—Tommy is _thrilled_. They’d aimed to get him a dog, failed, and accidentally stumbled upon the perfect gift. And it’s not a particularly _beautiful_ animal, Techno thinks, because beauty’s never been the first thing he sees in the world, but when it leans into Tommy’s hand, Tommy _melts,_ and it’s suddenly not so distasteful after all.

“You’ve got to name it,” Phil says when Tommy’s rambled himself out of breath. “What’re you thinking?”

“Henry,” Tommy says, grinning. There’s a story here, too, that Techno wishes he could pull out of thin air.“His name’s Henry.”

“That’s a human name,” Techno says. “For, you know. A _human_.”

Tommy scowls, shining eyes not shifting from Henry. “Fine. I’ll name him _Techno._ Better?”

Wilbur laughs. 

“For all you know, it could be a Hannah,” Techno says dryly.

Tommy scoffs and turns to him, affronted. “Henry isn’t a _woman_ ,” he says. “Henry is a _man_.”

“Henry is a _cow_.”

“Don’t listen to him, Henry,” Tommy says, spinning back to his _nonhuman_ cow. “He’s just jealous.”

“Oh, yes,” Techno deadpans. “Jealous of a cow.”

“Technoblade doesn’t know what jealousy is,” Wilbur says. “He’s all high and mighty.”

Techno snorts. “Says _you_.”

Wilbur smirks. “Eloquent comeback.”

“ _Phil,_ ” Tommy whines, hugging his cow’s face. The cow looks uncomfortable. “Can you make them leave? I’m trying to focus on Henry.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Come on. All of you. We’ve got to find a place to keep it, anyway.”

They start walking back to camp. 

“I’m not calling a cow _Henry_ ,” Techno says, smiling faintly, after a moment of only Tommy’s murmured condolences— _I know Techno’s mean, Henry. Don’t worry. You don’t have to like him. You can kick him in your sleep, or_ stomp _him, or something—_

“It’s my _birthday_ ,” Tommy says.

“It’s my _pride_ ,” Techno says.

“High and mighty,” Wilbur says.

“Oh, shove it,” Phil says, laughing, putting his foot down. “Techno, you’ll call the cow Henry. Wilbur, you’ll stop harassing Techno. And Tommy, you’ll…”

“ _Ha_ ,” Tommy says when Phil can’t find a finish. He smirks at Techno. “I’m the superior child.”

“You’re half right,” Techno says. “You’re definitely a child.”

“I’m _fourteen_ now.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“I’m twenty-two,” Wilbur says, disgusted.

They turn to Phil in question. 

Phil laughs heartily. “Not a _chance_.”

“Phil, I never took you for a _coward_ —”

“We won’t laugh, Phil, I _promise_ —”

“You must be _so_ old—”

///

“Let me take a look,” Phil says.

Tommy groans. “You said last time was the last time.”

“And then it wasn’t healed,” Phil says pointedly. “If— _if_ , mind—it’s fully healed now, then this’ll be the last.”

“Fine,” Tommy mutters, and yanks his sleeve up. 

Techno peers over Wilbur’s shoulder. Blotchy scars run up and down Tommy’s arm, but the black has faded, the blisters have vanished, and the leathery glint has disappeared. 

“Still no pain?” Phil asks.

“ _No_ ,” Tommy says, rolling his eyes.

Phil turns his arm over in his hand. “Can you feel it at all?”

“Yes.”

“It’s tingly, isn’t it?”

Tommy scowls. “You asked that last time.”

Phil looks at him flatly. 

“A little,” Tommy mutters. “But it’s isn’t _painful,_ so—”

“Of course it isn’t,” Phil says, sighing. He grabs a can of cream from the stump beside him. “You can’t feel anything when it’s a third degree burn.”

“But—”

“Tingling is progress,” Phil says, “but it hasn’t finished healing.”

Tommy groans and thuds his head against the center of Phil’s chest. “It’s not going to get any better.”

“That’s what you said about your headaches,” Wilbur says.

“He still gets those,” Techno mutters.

“No I don’t,” Tommy says, words muffled by Phil’s shirt. 

“Listen,” Phil says, rubbing Tommy’s back. “I’ll check it again in a few days, yeah?”

“I want to see the _house_ , _”_ Tommy whines.

“It’s a two-week long trip,” Techno says flatly. “There’s no way we’ll make it if you’re a zephyr away from death.”

“What’s a _zephyr?”_ Tommy demands, scowl obvious in his voice.

Phil puts a mollifying hand on his head. “We’ll go when you’re healed.”

“So _never_ ,” he groans. “Tingling doesn’t mean I’m going to zephyr to death, or whatever Techno said.”

“Not that,” Wilbur laughs.

“My arm is _fine,_ ” Tommy continues, ignoring him. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Techno says. “I can’t leave yet.”

“What?” Tommy demands, stepping back from Phil to frown at him. “Why?”

“I have to do something.”

“Return of Mr. Ambiguous,” Wilbur deadpans.

Tommy furrows his eyebrows. “Do what?”

“Engage in the free-market.”

“I don’t— _what?_ Where are you going?” 

“To the SMP.”

Tommy stares.

“The _SMP?”_ Wilbur echoes.

Techno looks at him dryly. “I know you aren’t deaf.”

“Well, no, but…I don’t understand.”

Techno shrugs. 

“So, what, you have to buy something?”

“Yes. I’ll only be there a day or two.”

“Can we—” Tommy clears his throat. “Can I come?”

Techno raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t think you’d want to.”

Tommy runs a hand through his hair, looking down almost shyly. “Well, it’s—if you’re already going to be there, then it’s fine.”

“Tommy,” he warns. “If it’s too much, you don’t have to—”

“No, no,” Tommy says quickly, looking up to persuade him. “Let’s—let’s go tomorrow. It’ll be fine. I _want_ to go back.”

“You want to go back,” Wilbur repeats, incredulous.

“I have something to do, too,” Tommy says.

Wilbur looks at him strangely. “What could you _possibly_ —”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tommy says shortly.

“It clearly does—”

“Just drop it, yeah?”

Wilbur’s forehead pinches. “All right,” he says.

Techno raises an eyebrow. 

Phil clears his throat. “Well,” he says. “S’pose we could all make a trip of it.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Tommy says. “That’s perfect. We should all go.”

“And the cow?” Techno deadpans.

“ _Henry_ ,” Tommy says automatically.

“We’ll take him with us, of course,” Phil says.

“I agree,” Tommy says. “We can’t just leave Henry here.”

“Take the _cow?”_ Wilbur echoes. “Are you both _mental?”_

///

They take the cow.

Techno doesn’t know how he and Wilbur lose the argument so easily. Phil is a _pragmatic_ person. Phil should agree with them.

Phil does not. They take the cow.

Three men, one child, and a cow. 

A very inconspicuous party.

///

“We can stop,” Phil repeats. 

“No,” Tommy says, and even the lone syllable sounds far more exhausted than it should. “No, I’m fine.”

“Tommy—”

Tommy’s smirk is weighed and weary, but there’s a defiant glint to his eyes that says _Don’t mention it_. “I think Henry’s made me invincible, y’know.” He pats the cow’s head. “I don’t know where we’d be without him.”

Wilbur drags his hands down his face. 

“Ender save us,” Techno mutters.

“Impossible,” Wilbur says. “We’re too far gone.”

///

“I feel utterly vindicated,” Techno says.

Wilbur leans toward Tommy. “That’s a fancy way of saying _I told you so_ ,” he stage-whispers.

“I’m not stupid,” Tommy says, scowling, crossing his arms. “I know what vindicated means.”

“Do you know what that means?” Techno asks, and points at the legion of armed guards at the border. 

“Might as well be a giant _No Cows Allowed_ sign,” Wilbur says.

“No,” Tommy says. “It just means we have to think of a genius way in.”

“And you’re a genius?” 

“Obviously.”

“ _Boys_ ,” Phil hisses from their left. He’d left a few minutes prior with a muttered promise to return. “Shut up and come here.”

Wilbur snorts.

“Awfully kind greeting,” Techno says once they’ve shuffled through the trees to reach his side.

Phil flicks his ear and points to a blind spot in the wall. A blind spot that they can easily enter the SMP through.

Tommy grins. 

Wilbur visibly deflates.

“Oh, no,” Techno mutters.

Wilbur shoots Techno a miserable glance. “We’ll never live it down.”

“How’d you even find this?” Techno asks. 

“It’s Phil,” Wilbur says sadly. “We never should’ve doubted him.”

“I feel vindicated,” Tommy says, and hugs his cow.

“I like Henry more than you,” Techno says.

Tommy whips toward him, eyes wide, and Techno realizes his mistake. “ _Ha!_ _Henry!”_

Wilbur shakes his head, disappointed. “You’ll never live it down.”

“I _knew_ it was just a matter of time—”

///

As soon as they step inside the SMP, something shifts.

Memories slip into the forefront of their minds. They are impossible to stop, impossible to fight against. He sees them in Wilbur and Tommy’s eyes, and Phil sees them in all of their’s, and they try to blink themselves back into the present, but the sight isn’t much better. 

Guards are everywhere. People scurry by with their hoods up and their chins tucked into their chests. Fear is palpable. Schlatt has made his awful country _worse._ Techno hadn’t thought it was possible.

The memories they can’t shove down confine them to the country’s edge. It is risky, anyway, to move toward the middle, so, except for the quality of the area, it doesn’t make much of a difference. 

It _is_ easier to hide Henry, at least, in the molding, deteriorating streets. Animal scat is omnipresent. Lame goats and groaning chickens litter the streets at random. Their bloodstains make the scene demonic—like a pleading sacrifice from the local citizens: _get us out of here_.

He doesn’t blame them. Houses are rotting. Shops are squalid, run down. People shuffle in and out of them, and that’s the worst part—this is their normal. This is their baseline. This is all they’ve ever known.

He tries not to think about it.

Tommy clutches the lead tighter in his hand.

And, even though they’ve only travelled a couple hours, Tommy’s too pale for them to do anything other than call it a day, so Phil pulls them into the first somewhat-reputable-looking inn he sees. He conjures a dozen coins from his pocket and tells them to wait in the porch’s shadows.

They don’t speak while he’s gone. 

Silence only lasts a couple minutes, though, because he comes back holding a brass key. 

“Home sweet home,” he says.

Techno grimaces.

///

Henry takes the couch.

“Greedy bastard,” Wilbur mutters when Tommy’s out of hearing range. “Now we’ve got to sleep on the floor.”

“Just move the cow,” Techno suggests.

“Tommy spent half an hour getting him up there,” Wilbur says, sighing. “I like living too much to try.”

“I’d avenge your death,” Techno says.

“Uh huh.”

“I would.”

“He’d beat you.”

Techno scowls. “Not a chance.”

Wilbur lifts an eyebrow. “For Henry’s sake? I wouldn’t bet against it.”

Techno opens his mouth, glances at the cow, and concedes the point.

Tommy sleeps next to Henry on the couch. Phil, after much convincing, takes the bed.

He and Wilbur are relegated to the floor. Despite their claims otherwise, neither of them mind.

///

He wakes to low, murmured voices.

The fireplace has died, and the single room is shroud in shadow. He blinks to adjust his vision, squints, and doesn’t see Wilbur beside him. Frowning, he sits up and turns to the sound’s source. 

Wilbur is sitting at the foot of the couch. 

“—not remember much?” he’s whispering, and Techno stills to listen. “Or do you?”

“A little,” Tommy mumbles. “Less than I should.”

A weighted pause.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Wilbur murmurs. “The universe is smart about this type of thing. It always works itself out.”

“Did you—I mean, what about your soulmate?”

“You?”

“No, no. And not Techno or Phil, either. I mean…you do have a fourth, don’t you? Like me?”

_Like me?_ he asks, but all Techno hears is un _like Techno?_

“You’ve seen the marks,” Wilbur guesses. 

“I wasn’t snooping.”

“I never said you were.”

“I just…saw them and connected the dots. I’m talking about the—the purple ones.”

“Mm.”

“That means you’ve met him, right?”

“Her. Yeah.”

“Her?”

“Her.”

“Oh,” Tommy whispers. “Is she your age?”

“Younger.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Every day.”

“I miss Tubbo, too. Sometimes it feels like a…well, it’s stupid.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Well, I just—sometimes it feels like a part of me is gone, y’know? I don’t think Phil and Techno get it, since we’re all of their soulmates, but I just…”

“I understand,” Wilbur murmurs. 

“And I love them, but I—I can’t—”

“I know,” Wilbur says.

Tommy exhales in something akin to relief. 

“I’m always here,” Wilbur says. “If you ever want to talk. About anything.”

Techno silently lies back down, staring at the ceiling, blinking in the darkness.

“Thanks,” Tommy whispers.

Something sour prods at Techno’s heart. He scowls, shoves it away, but it only ricochets back stronger. It’s bitter and different— _different—_ than anything he’s felt for awhile. It wraps itself around his heart and squeezes, squeezes, poisons, whispers _unlike Techno, unlike Techno,_ and he doesn’t know what it is, but he thinks he should know—he _should—_

_Technoblade doesn’t know what jealousy is_.

It’s stupid—so, _so_ stupid: irrational, unfair, unjust, and all the other adjectives in the world—but, more than anything, it’s _real_.

He and Tommy…they’ve never had that conversation. They’ve had conversations like it, but Techno’s always pulled back, back—away from the emotions that could spill into awkwardness, into judgement. 

And that’s _his_ fault, isn’t it? He doesn’t have the natural affinity for conversation like Wilbur clearly does, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have _tried_. That doesn’t mean he _shouldn’t_ have tried, so that Tommy would tell him, would share with him, too—

He scowls at the ceiling. 

///

“And you’re _positive?”_

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Yes, Phil.”

“All right,” Phil mutters, narrowed eyes following Tommy’s every movement. “If you have even a _hint_ of vertigo—”

“I’ll tell you,” Tommy promises.

“No. You’ll tell me, and then you’ll sit on the couch with Henry for the rest of the day.”

“I _got_ it, Phil.”

“No taking chances.” Phil turns to Wilbur and Techno with raised eyebrows. “Understand?”

They nod.

“All right,” Phil says. “Plans?”

Wilbur stuffs his hands in his pockets, shrugging. “Thought I’d just look around. Try to find something interesting.”

Phil nods, glances at Techno in question.

“Trading post,” he says.

“Tommy?” Phil asks.

Tommy looks at Techno, scrunching his nose. “Trading is boring.”

Techno frowns. “It isn’t always—”

“You can come with me,” Wilbur offers. 

Techno purses his lips.

Tommy tilts his head to Wilbur. “Just exploring?”

“Well, not _exploring_. More…watching, I guess.”

“Sounds boring,” Techno says quickly.

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, shrugging, glancing at Phil. “Could be fun.”

Techno bites the inside of his cheek.

“You’ll have to be careful,” Phil warns. “Stick close to Wil, and if you even have a _hint_ —”

“Come back here—blah, blah, blah. You just gave this lecture, Phil.” 

“I’m serious, Tommy.”

“I’m aware.”

Phil exhales, rolling his eyes. “So sassy. All the time.”

Tommy grins.

“You could just come with us, Phil,” Wilbur offers.

Tommy perks up like he’s had an epiphany. “ _Yeah!_ You should! Why not? You can keep an eye on me, or whatever—” 

“We’ll have _four_ eyes on you,” Wilbur says.

Techno shoves his feet into his boots. 

“Who’ll watch Henry?” Phil asks.

“He doesn’t need anyone to watch him,” Tommy says. “He’s so well-trained that—”

Wilbur scoffs. “He’s a _cow_ —”

Techno stands and walks to the door.

“Tech?” Phil asks, speaking over Wilbur and Tommy’s idiotic debate. “D’you have enough gold for your trade?”

“Yeah,” Techno mutters.

He pushes through the door.

///

“No, sir,” the woman says, smiling. “No extra fees.”

“Great,” he says. “And the deal lasts until whenever?”

“Yes. It’s a hefty purchase, so many of our customers delay taking it until they’re ready. I’ll write your information down, and all you’ll have to do is come in and show us your receipt of purchase. Then we’ll deliver it wherever you’d like.”

“Is there a time limit on that?”

“Yes, sir. Five years.”

“Oh,” he says. “Wow. All right. What about transporting it?”

“No extra fees there, either. We’ll deliver it to your location whenever you want us to.”

“Outside of the SMP, too?”

“Of course, sir. In fact, if you have any friends in other areas, we proudly deliver to four different countries and five different regions—”

“Great,” he repeats, cutting her off. He heaves his chest of gold onto the table between them. The woman’s smile doesn’t shift. “How much are you thinking?”

///

Negotiations end with the dusk, and he makes it back to the inn before total nightfall.

His deal was successful, so lingering annoyance has all but faded. He knocks on their door thinking of dinner and Tommy’s health and nothing else.

One of those questions is answered immediately—Tommy opens the door. His face is pale and his eyes are wide, and, without even taking a step, Techno says, “You need to rest.”

“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s—well, I just—” He scowls at his lack of eloquence and snaps, “I’m _fine_.”

Techno furrows his eyebrows. Tommy crosses the room back to his couch.

Techno peers his head inside before entering. Wilbur is pacing back and forth, pushing his hands through his hair. His expression is twisted, conflicted, grave. Phil sits stoically at the table, arms crossed, lips pursed.

Techno closes the door behind him. The sound makes Wilbur jump, but he only spares Techno a glance before resuming pacing. 

“Who died?” Techno asks, looking between the three of them, and making light of it makes it _worse,_ but that makes it better, because the tension is sharp, heavy, cutting, and he’ll do anything to alleviate it.

So will Tommy, apparently—he laughs, but it only lasts a moment before slicing off just as awkwardly as it started.

Wilbur’s pacing doesn’t stop. Phil’s expression doesn’t change.

Techno turns to Tommy, infinitely confused. “What do you know?”

“Nothing,” Tommy says, and Techno can see the honest, concerned glint to his wide eyes. “We saw—”

“We can’t leave yet,” Wilbur says, slamming to a halt, cutting Tommy off.

It doesn’t escape Techno’s notice, but he raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Wilbur,” Phil warns, narrowing his eyes. 

Wilbur turns away, holds up a hand, bows his head. “I—Phil, I _know_ , but this is—I can’t just—we can’t leave. We _can’t_.”

Phil rubs his mouth with his hand, and Techno understands, suddenly, the look on his face. 

Disapproval.

Techno turns to him. “What happened?”

Phil opens his mouth, shuts it, drags a hand down his face, takes a deep breath, and says, “We can’t leave Wilbur here alone.”

“Oh,” Techno says, rolling his eyes. “Of _course._ That makes perfect sense. I understand everything, now, thank you, and—”

Wilbur whirls on him. “Can you—just, _stop_ , all right? We can’t—I can’t _tell…_ ” He trails off, shaking his head. “It’s not important. I just have someone I need to talk to before we leave.”

Tommy sits up straighter. “Do you mean—”

“ _No_ ,” Wilbur snaps. 

“Who do you need to talk to?” Techno asks, narrowing his eyes, prickling at the curt reply.

“What did you need to buy?” Wilbur retorts.

“A gift,” Techno says flatly. “Your turn.”

“BS,” Wilbur says, shaking his head. “Just—everyone drop it, okay? I—”

“I don’t like it, Wilbur,” Phil says.

“Don’t like _what?”_ Tommy demands. “The guy he was—”

“Shut _up_ , Tommy.”

“What the hell, Wilbur?” Techno snaps. “What’s your problem?”

“ _My_ problems don’t matter,” Wilbur snarls. “This country is about to _burn_ , and we can’t just—can’t just _leave_. We have to stay. We have to—I have to figure something out.” 

Techno furrows his eyebrows, trying to piece the information together. 

“What is he talking about?” Tommy demands of Phil.

“I don’t know,” Phil mutters. “And _I_ think we should leave, but—”

“So why don’t we?” Tommy asks. “I don’t understand—”

“— _but_ ,” Phil says, “I’ll give him a couple days if he needs them. A _couple days_ , Wil. That’s _all_. Do you understand?”

“No,” Tommy says. 

_Almost,_ Techno thinks. 

It’s the only logical conclusion.

Wilbur’s discovered something about Schlatt.

///

He shakes Wilbur awake.

“What the hell?” Wilbur mutters blearily, swatting his hands away. “I’m _sleeping_.”

“It’s my turn for late night therapy,” Techno says, with more than a hint of acidity. He shakes him harder. “Get up.”

“Get _off_ of— _fine,_ just _stop_.” Wilbur sits up, rubs an eye. “Ender, you’re annoying. Worse than Tommy.”

“It’s Schlatt, isn’t it?” Techno whispers without further preamble.

Wilbur drops his hands to his side, looking at him closely in the darkness. A thousand thoughts cross his expression, and they are so clear, so obvious, so _telling_ that they might as well be words, sentences, paragraphs—

But it is dark. Dark enough that Techno can make out the outline of Wilbur’s face, but nothing more. He does not notice the words, does not see the sentences, does not read the paragraphs.

“It will be,” Wilbur says, and all Techno hears, all Techno knows are those words.

He drags a weary hand down his face. “What can I do?”

“Nothing, yet,” Wilbur says. “I need more time to think. Then I’ll—I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

“Time frame?” 

“However long Phil gives me, I guess.”

“Couple days, he said,” Techno says.

“All right,” Wilbur says. “I’ll tell you then.”

“Everything?”

“Yeah,” Wilbur murmurs. “All of it.”

///

Phil is silent.

Whatever understanding Techno and Wil had come to last night, Phil and Wil had clearly not achieved. It’s clear in Phil’s posture and his eyes and the twist to his lips—he is not pleased with Wilbur’s decision. And they’ve all had their disagreements before, but Phil’s never been so outright about his opinion, about the side he’s supporting. He is a pacifier before all else. 

It scares Techno a little, then, that he is so disapproving now. Techno had told him it was Schlatt that Wilbur was after, and, still, Phil had shown no difference. 

If Phil didn’t buy it…

Techno isn’t stupid. _Phil_ isn’t stupid. 

There must be another piece to the story.

His silence is full, loud—just like the streets. People are hauling tables and chairs and tents and materials back and forth. Children scramble after their parents and drop lollipops and pastries in their wake. Teenagers wave flyers and wave to their friends and wave off their employer’s frantic instructions.

The atmosphere is different than yesterday’s, like the universe saw the tension within their inn’s room and decided to lessen the outside world’s. 

It doesn’t take long for them to figure out why.

“Look,” Wilbur mutters, pointing toward a flyer pinned to a brick wall.

Phil keeps walking. Tommy, who’s apparently chosen neither of their sides, glances at it, shrugs, and catches up with Phil. 

Techno turns to examine it.

_ANNUAL FLEA MARKET_ the sign reads in bold letters. _FIRST WEEK OF SUMMER. KICKS OFF SATURDAY._

“Saturday,” Wilbur says.

“Soon.”

“Yeah. Couple days.”

“Explains the…” He gestures vaguely at the bustle around them. “This.”

Wilbur hums. They keep walking.

When the crowds get thicker, Phil slows to wait for them and they catch up. Phil looks at Wilbur in pointed question. “How much longer?”

“Less than a mile,” Wilbur mutters, not meeting his eyes. 

Wilbur branches off, and Tommy moves to Techno’s side. “What’s wrong with him?” he hisses in Techno’s ear. 

“Where to begin,” Techno deadpans.

Tommy rolls his eyes. “I _mean,_ why are they fighting?”

And…Techno doesn’t quite know what to say. That Wilbur might have found something out about Schlatt? That Phil doesn’t believe that’s what it is? That Wilbur might be lying to all of them?

For one thing, he does _not_ want to bring up Schlatt. It’s the last name any of them need to speak in Tommy’s presence, unless they want to see the memories that glaze his eyes and the subtle shaking to his hands and the rigid posture that never passes as casual, try as he might to feign ignorance. 

For another…he isn’t totally sure. He isn’t sure _why_ Phil wouldn’t believe him, unless Wilbur was lying to Techno, but why would he be lying? What has he faced Techno couldn’t? There isn’t reason for him to hide _anything._

In the end, his musings don’t matter.

Tommy’s entire body goes rigid.

He stops because Tommy does, and he’s worried, at first—why has he stopped? Is something wrong?—so he turns, follows Tommy’s eyes. When he finds nothing of interest—just messes of people and tables and tents—he mutters, “What is it?”

Tommy’s eyes are fixed. He’s looking at line of tents, and Techno can hardly see, and Wilbur’s stopped in confusion, and Phil’s looking worried, and Tommy _isn’t responding—_

“Tommy?” he repeats. “What is it?”

All of the blood leaves Tommy’s face.

“Is it your arm?” Phil asks, hurrying to his side. Wilbur follows, forgetting his anger in his concern. “Or your head?”

It’s _neither,_ Techno knows, and his knowledge is certain, inherent. Tommy doesn’t like weakness. Despite his incessant promises to Phil, he wouldn’t admit to anything here, in front of everyone, or, worse, break _down_ here, in front of everyone. Not for sickness or pain or…or vertigo, or whatever Phil had forced him to promise.

He wouldn’t.

But Techno looks at him, and he is pale and frozen and gaping, and that isn’t _Tommy,_ so something is either so, so wrong, or—

Techno retraces Tommy’s gaze.

—so, so right.

People scurry back and forth, obscure his vision, but Tommy isn’t looking at the _line_ of tents. Tommy lifts onto the balls of his feet, and Techno realizes—he’s looking at _one_ tent. One tiny, beat up tent buried beneath ten others, with an empty lawn chair in front of it and nothing else, and—

A boy walks out of the tent.

Tommy chokes out a sob.

Techno understands.

He grabs Tommy’s hand and yanks him forward, shoving everyone out of their way without an apology or second thought. Phil and Wilbur follow with shouted questions, without hesitation, and Tommy’s fully crying now, but only they notice, because both Tommy and Techno’s eyes are pinned on a thin, weak looking teenager with downcast eyes and an oversized sweatshirt and a collection of crudely carved wooden figures on the table before him. 

Tommy’s sobs catch in his throat. His breaths are shallow, choked, and Techno doesn’t want him to _actually_ choke, so he pulls him along faster. He shoves people away and they curse and glare and look at Tommy’s tears strangely, and Phil and Wilbur are shouting, _shouting_ , and people look at them strangely, too, but Techno doesn’t care because they’re almost there, and Tommy is sobbing, and the boy is frowning and picking at the wooden chess piece in his hand and muttering to himself under his breath, and—

Tommy’s sobs are loud. The boy looks up.

The chess piece clatters to the table.

Both of them freeze. Neither of them move. Tommy stares like he’s never believed anything, understood anything in his life until _this_ moment, until _this_ reunion, and the boy gapes and gapes until—

The quietest of whispers: “ _Tommy?”_

It breaks the spell. 

Tommy sprints forward and slams into him. He knocks the table over in his haste, and a hundred carefully crafted chess pieces litter the floor. Neither of them notice. Tommy ducks his head into the boy’s shoulder—he is a head taller, at least—and hugs him like the world will snap out of existence if he ever lets go.

They whisper things not meant for anyone else’s ears, so Techno turns to Wilbur and Phil. He means to answer their questions, but he sees understanding in their eyes and knows he doesn’t need to.

“A fifth, then,” Phil says softly.

A fifth.

Wilbur sputters. “That’s—that’s—”

“Tubbo,” Techno says.

///

_Out of nowhere._

It’s the first thought that pierces the haze of incredulity, that pierces the mess that’s been the last 24 hours. The moments blur by—joyous tears and mumbled introductions and an invitation to come to dinner, which Tommy quickly corrects into an invitation to stay forever—and it is obvious from the boy’s exhausted countenance and thin, grimy appearance, that he is in the same position all three of them were, once: without a home. It’s confirmed when he accepts both invitations in a strangled voice— _Yes. Yes, please. I would love to._

Phil and Wilbur and Tommy and Tubbo hurry to gather everything that the latter needs. Techno doesn’t _mean_ to be useless, but all he can do is stare, process, because yes, he’s thrilled, but they arrived with four and are leaving with five and Tommy has been looking for ages and it’s all just so _out of nowhere_. 

The boy is no threat. That much, at least, is plainly clear. _Laughably_ clear, even, if a starved child’s inability to sabotage three grown men and a child could ever be called laughable.

But as they’re turning to leave, Tommy and Wilbur run back into the tent to grab something at Phil’s call, and Tubbo drops a chess piece on the ground. 

When he goes to pick it up, his face spasms in pain. He clutches his abdomen and the image comes back in severe clarity—the yellow bees on Tommy’s stomach. He takes a step forward. “I’ve got it,” he says.

Tubbo blinks up at him. There are faint green markings on his face. They look like crescents. “Oh. No, no, it’s okay. Sorry, I can…I mean, I can get it. It’s not that far—”

Techno bends down, grabs it, and hands it over.

“Thanks,” Tubbo says, watching him with wide doe eyes. “You’re—sorry, I…I already forgot. You’re—”

“Techno,” he says. 

Tubbo, now present enough to understand the apparent implications of the name, drops his jaw to the floor. “Wait. Techno? Like the…like the _Blade?”_

Techno furrows his eyebrows, opens his mouth to ask _how_ he knows, _what_ he knows, because to his knowledge that name had never left the fight club, and—

“Just call him Henry,” Tommy says, slinging an arm around Tubbo’s shoulder and grinning with the kind of pure, unadulterated happiness that only comes with Fortune’s unexpected favor. “He prefers it.”

Tubbo tears his eyes away from Techno to scrunch his nose at Tommy. “Don’t be mean,” he says. “Henry is a _cow’s_ name.”

“Oh, no,” Techno says, horrified. “There’re two of you.”

Tubbo laughs. Tommy beams.

It is, without a doubt, the happiest Techno has ever seen him. He was happy before, of course, when Techno and Wilbur first found him, but he was also so sick that he could hardly breathe.

And Techno has more questions than he can count—especially when Phil and Wilbur emerge from the tent with tighter expressions than they’d entered with, and he’s reminded that there is something going on there, too; something he isn’t sure about—but for now, that mere fact is enough.

So he bites his tongue on _How do you know about the Blade?_ and _Have you been to the fight club?_ and _Do you know Schlatt?_ and _Where is he?_ and _What’s going on, Wilbur? The truth?_ and _Why don’t you believe him, Phil?_ and says to Tommy instead, “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

Tommy smirks. “No chance Phil’ll make me.”

“Make you what?” Phil asks, shifting a box into Techno’s arms. 

“What is this?” Techno asks blandly, voice muffled by cardboard. “Why am I holding it?”

“Tommy’s arms are twigs,” Phil says absently. “Make you what, Tommy?”

“My arms are _not—”_

“Make you what?”

“Make me sleep on the floor,” Tommy says, scowl fading just as rapidly as it’d appeared. “Me and Tubbo get the couch, right?”

“You can’t _both_ share the couch with Henry,” Phil says. “So either sacrifice your comfort or his.”

“I choose neither,” Tommy says.

“Not an option, unfortunately,” Phil says. “Let me know by tonight and I’ll arrange it accordingly.”

He smiles at them both, turns, starts walking, and gestures them after him. They follow without hesitation, arms full of chess pieces and two ratty cardboard boxes. 

A footstep later, Techno hears Tubbo’s whisper—“Wait, I’m confused. Is his name actually Henry?”

“Yes,” Tommy stage-whispers back. “He knows it’s a cow name, so he sometimes goes by Techno. Be careful. Sensitive subject.”

Techno rolls his eyes.

///

As soon as they’re inside, Tommy declares they’re going to have a feast. 

Not two seconds later, Tubbo falls asleep.

“We’ll push it to tomorrow, okay?” Phil says to Tommy. “We’ll be here anyway.”

At the table, Wilbur looks away.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy says absently. “Can you just—I can’t quite—”

“Your arms _are_ twigs,” Phil says, and walks over to pull Henry from the couch without struggle. 

Phil insists Tommy allow him to maneuver Tubbo to the couch since Tommy is anything but _gentle_ , no matter how much he cares for someone. They get him there without struggle, and he curls into the cushions. Tommy sits on the ground right in front of it.

“I can’t believe it,” Tommy whispers, after many minutes of silence. “I can’t—it can’t be real.”

Techno can’t, either. 

Henry settles by the fireplace, which would concern Tommy greatly if he was awake, but doesn’t because he follows Tubbo into sleep almost immediately. 

None of them speak until all of them are asleep, too—Phil on the bed, Techno beside Tommy, Wilbur with his cheek pressed into the wooden table. The silence would concern Techno if his thoughts weren’t more than loud enough to make up for it. The questions rampage through his mind in an angry, violent loop, and he needs sleep, yes, but he needs _answers_.

_Tomorrow_ , he decides, glancing at a sleeping Wilbur. _I’ll get the truth tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be confusing now...will make sense soon. Promise!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought! <3


End file.
